


The Contract

by JP (jpgr1963)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bahamas, Drug Use, Drunkenness, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Ghosts, Gnomes, Greece, Hamburg, Heavy Angst, ID Bracelets, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, India, Liverpool, London, Los Angeles, M/M, Minor Violence, New York City, Paris (City), Pigeons, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 137,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/JP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A novel-length slash story about John and Paul's relationship from their teen years to the 1980s, with many flashbacks and flash forwards. Includes much canon history as well as alternative universe possibilities. This work is complete.  </p><p>Looking for more of my writing? Check out my AO3 profile for info.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction and for fun, I have no idea what really happened, and the characters are from my own twisted fantasies. I make no fricking money off this, nor do I intend libel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~~~~  
> Archiving my old John/Paul fanfiction here at AO3. The story was originally published by me on LiveJournal in 2011.  
> ~~~~~
> 
> CONTRACT RULES
> 
> 1\. No snogging other blokes, ever
> 
> 2\. Lock the fucking door, always
> 
> 3\. Don’t tell anyone, no matter what
> 
> 4\. Trust each other
> 
> 5\. Listen to our mates
> 
> 6\. Don’t be a jealous prick
> 
> 7\. Jump down the fucking rabbit hole
> 
> 8\. Tell each other the truth
> 
> 9\. Don’t be afraid of change
> 
> 10\. Don’t give up, ever

**1962**  
  
 _“It was supposed to be a bloody celebration wasn’t it? The best goddamn thing that had ever happened in their short, shitty lives. A real record contract – not bullshit work, like backing up Tony tone-deaf Sheridan on those daft songs, but a real deal for a rock ’n’ roll record with a real fucking record company. In fucking London. Shit, it’s happening.”_  
  
Paul was still mulling over his thoughts as he pulled the auburn haired young man, nearly blind at night without his glasses, off the gloomy street and up to the front door.  
  
“Let’s go in here, Johnny. Have a pint or something.”  
  
His friend muttered curses about a wretched smell, but agreed anyway. Once inside, Paul guided the older boy towards the back corner, aiming his friend’s feet by subtle touches to John’s left elbow.  
  
“ _This is gonna to be hard. God, it’s fuckin' gonna hurt...”_  
  
Paul winced inside, as his other hand ran quickly down John’s back, lightly pressing on his lover’s firm lower muscles, as the two disappeared into the back of the establishment.  
  
The run down pub in a seedy section of Liverpool was dark, lit dimly by cracked, yellowed glass lamps at the bar and high up above the tables. A few minutes and a couple of quid later, the young musicians sat across from one another, sucking on shared cigarettes and tossing back stale pints, in a booth next to a window in the darkest back corner. Paul chose the back booth -- not for privacy so much this time, because none of the regulars in this shitty neighborhood dive would recognize them… not yet anyway. Were they closer in town to the Cavern Club, the two them might have garnered unwanted idiotic behavior from the growing mass of local fan girls, not too mention palpable scorn from resentful, bitter adults. Paul chose this sad place because it was out of the way, outside of their little kingdom. And the dark back corner was especially quiet and solemn, like an old forgotten cemetery.  
  
It was the perfect forgotten spot, in this perfectly anonymous shit hole, for the next step. _“For breaking it off.”_ Paul agonized to himself, as he sipped the foam off the top of his second pint. Despite the heaviness deep in his heart, Paul couldn’t help stealing brief glances across the table at the delicious smile reflected in the dirty window glass – John was his leader, his best mate, his partner, his boyfriend — shit, John was his everything.  
  
 _“And he still trusts me.”_  Paul thought.  _“Just like he trusted dead fuckin’ Stu.”_  
  
With his chin cupped in his right hand, John gazed out blindly through the glass into the night. He had no inkling that his now perfect, fragile world was about to shatter. Right now, in the pub’s dim booth, the rhythm guitarist was stupidly giddy about the recording contract and slightly pissed from inhaling his beer too quickly. Still staring out the window, John enthused non-stop about how great it was going to be –- “kings of fuckin' England, Paul!” -- but the beautiful young man wasn’t actually listening to John’s growls; his own thoughts were screaming inside his tired mind.  _“The bloody contract changes everything, John.”_ Paul’s thoughts ached,  _“It’s already changed me for fuck’s sake.”_  
  
Paul took a deep but quick breath, hoping his distracted companion wouldn’t notice his pain.  
  
 _“Now the damn contract’s gonna change us."_  Paul’s eyes watered as he averted them away from John’s perfect reflection, _“End us. Has to, doesn’t it? Fuckin' hell.”_  
  
John felt a wisp of tension from somewhere and turned away from the window to examine Paul’s poorly-lit face for clues. Finding his boyfriend’s dark brown eyes heavy and slightly wet, John extended one hand under the wooden table and squeezed Paul’s thigh just above the knee. Paul sighed, his voice already cracking.  
  
“This contract is — it's a huge deal, John.”  
  
John’s eyes softened and he spoke low, in a silky voice he mostly saved for Paul, keeping his warm hand on Paul’s leg, “It's happenin' fast now, isn’t it? We’re gonna be rich, really rich, and bleedin’ famous to boot, Paul. We’re gonna get the fuck out of this shit hole city — together. It’s going to be great. Just trust me, luv.”  
  
And suddenly, without warning or wish, vivid memories of their first real snog some four years earlier raced through Paul’s brain while a fierce twinge shot through his groin. He remembered…

On that day, they were still boys really, Paul barely sixteen years old, slightly shorter with traces of baby fat clinging stubbornly to his maturing features. John was older than Paul — much older in so many fucking ways, more masculine, more damaged, more experienced, more reckless. And no surprise, on that rainy early fall afternoon, reckless John decided to just fucking nick the record from the shop despite the fact that he had enough money in his pocket…


	2. Chapter 2

**1958**  
  
“I said, just hide it under your fuckin’ coat, Paul,” he whispered forcefully, a slight smirk lighting up John’s face. Behind the counter on the other side of the Liverpool record store, the shop owner spied the loitering teenage boys with typical suspicion.  
  
“The old man’s spyin' us, John." Paul had never nicked anything before except for cheap sweets to impress his little brother. "Listen, just pay for the thing, alright?” Paul’s huge eyes begged John for a break, just this one time. Captivated momentarily by the soft, fuckable look of Paul’s mouth, John finally just snorted and returned to flipping mindlessly through the record bin.  
  
But before Paul could finish his exhale of relief, John’s feline eyes suddenly darkened and narrowed. “How the fuck are we gonna be famous rockers if you’re scared of nickin’ a record, ya cunt? Come on, grow some balls and slip the fuckin’ thing under yer coat, arsehole.” John demanded as he shoved the single at Paul’s ribs.  
  
 _“It’s another bullshit test,”_  Paul thought with frustration.  
  
After he awkwardly slid the record under the wool fabric of his worn coat, Paul steadily and confidently made his way out of the store, with John, sporting a triumphant grin, following close behind. The moment they escaped out into the gray rain, they ran full speed in the direction of the golf course, stumbling and splashing, but mostly cursing and laughing.  
  
 _“Why the hell are we still running? We’re not gonna get caught cause Lennon never gets caught, the cagey fucker.”_  Paul thought as he bent over, hands above his knees, water dripping down his forehead locks, trying to catch his breath. Soon they were far enough out of range of the store that their pace naturally slowed to a cocky stroll. Within a few more feet of sidewalk, the space between their soaked bodies narrowed, letting their shoulders repeatedly rub against each other with the rhythm of their steps.  
  
“Bloody hell. Didn’t think you had it in ya, Paulie.  Or, well — attached to ya, ya know?  
  
Paul chuckled and mocked back, “So glad to impress you, oh great one.” But then the younger boy’s voice grew serious. “But no more of that fuckin' ‘Paulie’ shite anymore. Got it, Lennon?”  
  
With a huge electric smile, John stopped, turned his head slightly down, and leaned his mouth in close to Paul’s right cheek. “Well, well, now — you did grow a pair, didn’t ya, son?”  
  
As John turned away, the back of his left hand, hidden from passerby’s view by Paul’s coat, very lightly brushed over Paul’s balls through his trouser fabric – so lightly that the dark-haired boy wasn’t even sure if he actually felt it, or if he just imagined it.  _“God, I better not have imagined that.”_  Paul laughed nervously to himself as he readjusted his half hard cock and turned to follow John down the street.  
  
John had kissed him once before when they were both fairly pissed from the nasty liquor that John always seemed to find, Paul thought, but John hadn’t, um —  _petted_  him before. And Paul had never been fucking turned on by another boy’s touch. Fuck, he’d never been touched there by another boy in the first place. Shit.  
  
“Anyroad, Macca, you should know by now that I bloody love surprises. And you surprised me, luv.” John called back over his shoulder.  
  
“Ta, I s'ppose.”  
  
The two walked in silence, trying to smoke damp cigarettes as the rain turned to a misty but warmer drizzle, until they were in a secluded clump of trees off the golf course green. John turned to his younger friend, rubbed his hands together, and finally asked in a smarmy pirate voice, “So where’s our loot, matey? What record did we get, you git?”  
  
Paul chuckled as he patted his coat, searching for the disc. “Oh shit.  I must have dropped it somewhere. Fuck. I’m sorry, John.”  
  
John’s forced look of anger quickly melted into laughter as he revealed a hidden stash of records expertly jammed under his brown jacket. “Good thing that I lifted us a few, isn’t it then?” Paul’s face erupted in a crinkled smile.  
  
“Now see here, matey,” John continued in his ridiculous pirate accent, pointing his finger at Paul’s face, “I was going to swap these ‘ere treasures with ya, but now you’ve nuttin’ like ‘em to trade me for, do ya?”  
  
Paul laughed and asked with an amused smile, “So what do you want for 'em, Captain?”  
  
John’s voice lowered to a sexy growl, as he gently shoved the younger boy up against a tree. “Your sweet mouth, Paul. That’ll work just fine.”  
  
Paul laughed and coughed at the same time. “What? Are you bloody crazy?” Through the light drizzle, John’s steady gaze remained fixed on Paul’s lips.  
  
Paul looked back at his friend in disbelief, barely noticing that his own defenses were already cracking. “John, come on, we’re not pissed …or anything.”  
  
“Yes, I’m daft as a brush, and no, we’re not pissed. Unless you’re hiding a bottle in those trousers — ‘ere, lemme check yer pockets. Again.”  
  
Instinctively, Paul raised his arms to defend himself as John pushed him harder against the tree. Paul didn’t know yet that his bandmate, not even yet eighteen, was already dangerously skilled in seduction. So, Paul didn’t stand a chance when John didn’t grab him as expected, but instead cupped his face in both hands and lightly brushed his lips against the sensitive corner of Paul’s mouth.  
  
Paul’s whole body trembled from the intoxicating mixture of lust and panic. “It’s all right, Paul. Just trust me, luv.”  
  
~~~~~~  
  
 **1962**  
  
“Paul. Uh, Paul? Paul, what the fuck’s wrong with ya?”  
  
“Huh?” Paul slowly raised his eyes up to meet John’s smile across the pub table.  
  
“Where the hell are ya, luv?” John chuckled.  
  
“Shit — daydreaming, I s’ppose.”  
  
“Well, son, there is an awful lot to think about now — now that we got the fuckin' contract!” John voice got louder as his sentence trailed off. Then he leaned half-way across the table and his voice dropped back down to a low hum. “So, why the ‘ell did you bring yer boyfriend to this stinking loo of a pub, then? You wanted to talk, right? Christ, must be a pretty shitty chat for ya to bring me to this hole.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**1962**  
  
“Alright then, spit it out, Paul. What’s screwin’ with yer mind so bloody bad that  
you’ve dragged your lazy arse, and my utterly fuckable bum, nearly halfway across  
dark, ol’ Liddypool?”  
  
Paul easily recognized the genuine concern in John’s eyes, hidden far behind the  
humor in his voice. John’s bullshit was just a flimsy, transparent shield that Paul had  
seen straight through since the very beginning.  
  
Paul swallowed and bit his left thumbnail. “Well — are you really sure — that Ringo’s  
gonna work out, that’s all?”  
  
 _“Shit. Where did that come from?”_  Paul wondered, as a slightly astonished  
expression took over his face. John noticed. Paul hadn’t planned to delay the  
inevitable discussion with some off-the-cuff remark about their newest band  
member, but he continued anyway.  
  
“What I mean is, the fans are pretty balmy right now cause we sacked Pete. And,  
ya know, Brian said that Martin bloke was thinking of hiring some London drummer  
he knew, for the recording an’ all that — the posh bugger.”  
  
After the string of words spilled out of his boyfriend’s mouth, John suspected that he  
knew what was bothering Paul.  
  
“Fuck, is that all! Yer still worried about poor, ol’ plastic Pete and his crazy fan  
birds?”  
  
“The fans matter, John. They’re the ones that have to actually buy the bloody  
records for us to get outta this shit town, don’t they?”  
  
John’s expressionless stare didn’t waiver. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and  
then declared, “Bollocks. It’s our bloody destiny to get the fuck outta ‘ere. Sod ‘em,  
Macca.”  
  
“Really, John? Oh wait, I get it then! Mimi and her flock of ol’ bint witches are  
gonna buy all the copies of our big hit record, and then burn ‘em during one of their  
pagan sewing rituals, yeah? We’ll be rich alright, and cursed.”  
  
John’s eyes lightened with an amused smirk. “Fuck you, luv.” Shit, how he loved  
Paul.  
  
“Sides, Mimi wouldn’t toss a pence for a record that wasn’t drippin with all that  
orchestra crap. Unless, of course, you were plannin’ on adding some granny violin  
shit to our songs now, Macca.” John chuckled softly and relaxed back, stretching his  
strong arms across the top of his booth seat, as a smile stretched across his face.  
  
With a quick wink to his boyfriend and another drag of his smoke, John  
continued. “Ritch’ll be fine. He’s the best fuckin’ drummer in Liverpool, for Christ’s  
sake, and Mean Mr. Martin’s gonna keep him on the bleedin’ record, Paul. Relax, will  
ya?“  
  
When Paul remained uncharacteristically quiet, John continued. “And, most  
important to you, right? All those ‘Pete Worst wenches’? They’ll come around to yer  
gorgeous face, darlin’. You’ll see. They’ll buy our fucking records by the crateful — and you, my son, will be beating ‘em off with yer pole by month’s end.”  
  
John’s last witty remark cut through the numbing comfort Paul had begun to feel --  
comfort not just with their flippant banter, but also with the enveloping warmth of  
just being alone with John, far away from the rest of their ever-expanding troupe of  
mates and manager suit types.  
  
“Yeah, Ritch’ll be gear. I know.” Paul paused, lost as to how to turn the  
conversation in a direction that he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go in anymore. He  
shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as he leaned forward, finding the piece of  
paper that had pushed Paul toward this painful choice in the first place.  
  
~~~  
  
Three blocks away from John, and that folded piece of paper in Paul’s pocket,  
another young guitarist was walking fast, dark eyes scanning through the windows  
of the buildings he passed, as he looked for the familiar profiles of his mates. Earlier  
in the evening, once the celebration had wound down to a dull murmur of tired  
business chatter, George had seen his two mates take off during Brian “Let’s open  
another bottle of champagne, boys!” Epstein’s third fucking “contract signing” bash.  
  
 _“Where the ‘ell are they off to?”_  George had complained to no one, as John and Paul  
ducked casually out of Eppy’s mother’s front parlor.  
  
Less than an hour later, stubbornly independent and already classically handsome,  
George was looking for them — once again. “Why the fuck am I out here in…. “  
George paused and mumbled to himself. “Fuck, where am I?” He quickly looked  
around for some municipal street sign but found nothing. “’ere I am, trying to  
follow those wankers… and they could be bloody anywhere!  A pub, a club — Christ, another fuckin' alley.”  
  
George’s breath hitched sharply as he momentarily lost his balance. He turned  
down yet another side street and stopped in front of the next pub entrance that he  
stumbled across in the unfamiliar neighborhood. “Shit,” he sighed, as he made his  
way in to the bar through the small crowd in the dark room. After throwing some  
coins on the bar counter, George nodded “Ta, mate,” as the pint was placed without  
a word in front of his lean, nineteen year old frame.  
  
Staring at the yellowed paper patterns on the wall behind the bar, George  
remembered that particularly shitty night in excruciating detail, thank you very  
much.  
  
He had been walking along another smelly Hamburg street, slightly pissed and  
looking for a shop to buy smokes, when he spotted his band mates standing in a  
shadowy, narrow lane behind a porn cinema.  
  
He barely recognized John, since his face was turned away from George’s sight. The  
fact however that George, a keen observer of every fuckin’ detail, recognized the  
stitched design on the top of John’s cowboy boots, made it pretty bloody clear that  
the bloke with his face and palms pressed flush to the brick wall, naked from the  
waist down except for the boots, was George’s irreverent band leader.  
  
But it was seeing his childhood friend, Paul, holding John’s wrists firmly against the  
wall, that completely shook George stone cold sober.  
  
Paul had his leather jacket off, shoved up under John’s head to protect John’s face  
from the rough brick. He was standing behind John, his black T-shirt bunched half  
way up his torso, his tight trousers and underwear pushed down midway over his  
taut upper legs, sliding his lubed cock slowly, in and out, between John’s muscled  
thighs.  
  
“Stop — fuckin’ — teasin’ — Christ!” John begged between breaths, as the  
intoxicating smell of Paul’s leather jacket filled John’s nostrils.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, luv.” Paul growled into the curve of John’s neck.  
  
Paul let go of John’s wrists and gently pulled John by his hair back towards him, just  
far enough so that Paul could turn and slide his left arm up between John’s chest and  
the wall.  
  
“Oh, shit — yes, baby...” John moaned.  
  
Paul’s left hand slowly snaked its way up to his boyfriend’s face. Then he stopped,  
cupping John’s forehead with the heel of his palm. With noticeable force, Paul  
quickly grabbed a fistful of John’s curly maple brown forelocks. At the same time,  
Paul’s right hand slid down over John’s naked right hipbone, roughly wrapping his  
long fingers, one by one, around John’s thick cock. After a few hard, fast pumps, Paul  
slowed his hand movements to match the delightfully teasing rhythm he had already  
mastered for fucking John’s thighs.  
  
It was when Paul hooked his own shoes around the insteps of his boyfriend’s  
cowboy boots, and spread John’s legs wide apart, that John gasped in anticipated  
ecstasy. Within seconds, he completely surrendered his body, and his bullshit  
bravado, to his beautiful, dark-haired lover.  
  
George turned away, not really believing what he was seeing. It was that bloody  
sound that made him look back.  
  
John’s loud, raspy cry filled the space of the alleyway as Paul buried himself into the  
guitarist, so goddamn deep, until Paul was sure John could feel his balls slamming  
against his bum. George watched, transfixed and barely breathing, as Paul arse fucked  
John against the brick alley wall, hard and slow.  
  
 _“It’s just, well, I dunno — sex, for Christ’s sake,”_ George exhaled to himself again,  
taking a sip of his pint and stubbing out his cigarette.  
  
But then George also remembered that he saw Paul affectionately push up John’s old  
white T-shirt and run his lips across the blades of John’s shoulders, though George  
couldn’t hear the words that Paul’s mouth was clearly whispering. He heard John,  
though. No fucking surprise there.  
  
“Sweet fuckin ‘ell — oh god, PaulPaulPaul — Paul.” He saw John collapse  
against the wall, moaning incoherently and laughing softly. “Fuck, I adore you, Macca.”  
  
And then George saw his childhood mate, desperately trying to hold up a trembling,  
spent John, empty his balls into John’s tight bum in three quick, deep thrusts. When  
it was finally over and Paul pulled out slowly, George heard him groan, “John... ” as Paul finally let his head fall forward to rest against the back of John’s soaked neck.  
  
 _“Shit.”_ George thought, and took another gulp of beer.  _“What the fuck’s the matter  
with ya, McCartney!”_  
  
The handsome, tired young guitarist hadn’t noticed the cute brunette girl closing  
in on him from behind until she placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and  
whispered in his ear, “What’s yer name, hon’?” The smell of her perfume quickly  
reached George’s brain; with relief, the sweet and distinctly feminine scent relaxed  
his tensed muscles and soothed his aching temples.  
  
~~~~  
  
“Look at this, John.” Paul sighed, pulling out a folded piece of newsprint, and then  
sliding it across the pub table. He knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.  
  
“What’s this then, luv?” John asked, looking for answers in Paul’s eyes, as he slowly  
opened the article, torn from some fan magazine.  
  
“It’s about Cliff Richard. An interview, sort of, where this reporter asks all these  
personal questions.” John eyebrows lifted as he smirked.  
  
Paul then switched from his normal voice to his daft imitation of a southern BBC  
announcer, complete with an imaginary microphone. “What’s your favorite food,  
Cliffie, my boy? What size trousers do you wear, Mr. Richard? Who are you dating,  
Cliff? It’s fucking bloody nosy, it is.” Paul hesitated momentarily, with an over-  
serious look on his face, and John noticed.  
  
“Since when did you start collecting fan bird articles about Cliff Richard’s trousers,  
darlin’?” John barely got it out before breaking into a hysterical fit as he tossed the  
refolded paper back to Paul.  
  
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, John! What I mean is  — I don’t collect Cliff Richard shit,  
ya cunt!” Paul balled the paper up violently, shoved it back in his jacket pocket,  
and kept going.  
  
“It’s just, well, this could ‘appen to us, ya know, if we make it big cause of the  
contract and all that. Lots of stupid questions. Daft reporters asking stuff about  
our personal lives. You know, private shit. Talking to our families, our friends, our  
birds….. that prick of a landlord of yours, for fuck’s sake.” Paul briefly remembered  
that time he had almost run into that fat bastard, as he snuck out of John’s flat to  
head home to Forthlin early one Sunday morning before his dad woke up.  
  
Paul’s voice softened with the weight of his own racing heartbeat. “Imagine it, luv,  
some shit reporter shoving a microphone in your face, and barking, “What’s your  
favorite color, Beatle John?”  
  
“Well — as long as I don’t say, ‘Whatever you call the color of McCartney’s  
throbber,’ I reckon I won’t fuck it up too bad, eh?” John snickered.  
  
“Shit, John.” Paul sank down, and turned his eyes toward the window. “This is  
serious.”  
  
Paul’s throat started to close as the next words were painfully forced out.  
  
“This is — this is  _illegal_ , for fuck’s sake.”  
  
Illegal.  
  
John realized, just then, that he should have seen it coming. John knew it  
was coming — shit, he had known it for some time now, though he rarely thought  
about it much anymore --- the doubt, the fear, Paul’s bloody instinctive self-  
preservation.  
  
 _“He’s already fuckin’ left me, hasn’t he.”_  John flinched inside, as he reached two  
fingers out across the dark booth to lightly trace Paul’s profile.  
  
But before he could get close to touching Paul's face, Paul turned away from the window, and stared deep into John’s brown almond eyes. And then Paul saw them — saw those very first, subtle cracks, as John’s heart hardened, splintered and began to shatter.  
  
John leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. He looked up at Paul  
through thick, dark lashes, and snarled, “Ah, I see we’ve finally reached the ‘shitty  
chat in the shit hole pub’ moment we’ve been skirtin’ around, haven’t we, luv?”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**1960**  
  
“Get — off me, John!” Paul laughed hard as he threw his head back, trying to be quiet, trying half-heartedly to push the older boy away. “We’re never gonna catch a ride if you keep shoving me back into the bleedin’ shrubs.”  
  
John smiled against Paul’s skin as he slowly lifted his mouth off Paul’s lightly-stubbled jaw line. He looked deep into the boy’s dark eyes, and pulled a small, leafy branch out from Paul’s thick locks. “Sorry, luv. Just can’t resist ya.” John batted his lashes and pulled a silly face. “I try to be a good boy, but I can’t help m’self.”  
  
“Don’t ever try to resist me, ok?” Paul chuckled and gently kissed John’s upturned lips.  
  
“Come on, let’s at least get a good part of the way to Bette’s before it gets dark.”  
  
Paul grabbed John’s hand and pulled them back out into the light of the narrow country road, a winding lane bordered by sections of old, crumbling stone walls. It was a warm, delightful day in the middle of April – the kind of rare day that made some people offer rides to handsome young men that reminded them of their own sons when their boys were younger.  
  
After strolling down the road in the sunshine an hour or so later, having stolen three more lingering kisses in the bushes along the way, the two young hitchhikers were in the back seat of a rather nice car that was owned, so it seemed, by a friendly, older couple.  
  
“Where are you lads going?”  
  
“Reading, in Berkshire, sir.”  
  
“To me cousin’s place. She and her husband own a pub there. We’re gonna help ‘em out for a few days. Make a couple of quid, maybe. And, uh…thanks for the ride.”  
  
“Well, we can get you most of the way then. We’re headed to Southampton; to visit Alice here’s sister and her family. Bit of a holiday of sorts.”  
  
And that was it.  
  
The rest of the long ride was peaceful and quiet -- except for John’s soft snores muffled by Paul’s shoulder, and the low rumble of lorries passing on the motorway. Paul spent the whole ride squinting out the window into the bright sun, watching the scenery of Britain fly by, as he gently squeezed John’s hands, comfortably tucked under the jumper draped over their laps.  
  
That night they made it to Mike’s pub shortly before midnight.  _“A nice, clean place,”_  Paul thought.  _“Good place to spend the holidays with John, away from Liverpool, away from Cynthia and from Mimi — away from that fuckin’ Sutcliffe twat.”_  
  
“Ah, ye finally made it, boys! Welcome to our fine establishment.” Bette’s husband hollered as the two musicians made there way over to the curved bar along the left side of the room, guitars slung over their shoulders, travel bags in their hands.  
  
“We’ve only one room for you, Paul. I hope it’ll do. One bed, too. Sorry for that, lads. We really are pleased that you’re ‘elping out, though,” Bette apologized.  
  
“That’ll be fine, Bette. Don’t worry ‘bout us — we’ll manage.” Paul comforted her sweetly as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, John’s face sparkle with a grin.  
  
After a quick dinner, a lively conversation about some of McCartney’s relatives that John had never heard of, and a couple of pints, the two made their way up the narrow wooden stairs to the spare room.  
  
“Cor, it’s not bad up here. Bit small, but in a sort of comfy way, yeah?” Paul dropped his bag on the floor and carefully propped his guitar in the corner against the wall.  
  
“S’nice. Come here, Paul.”  
  
Paul walked over and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, resting his chin on John’s shoulder, as the older boy embraced him in a strong hug.  
  
“Great idea you had there, Macca,” John whispered with lazy growl, “hitching down here for the holidays, just the two of us.”  
  
“Hmm — yeah,” Paul hummed into John’s shoulder before he pulled back and captured John’s lips with his mouth. Paul continued to hum softly as he covered John’s mouth in slow, languid kisses, his tongue brushing across John’s lips and teeth.  
  
“Bed, yeah?” John sighed when Paul gave him a moment to catch his breath.  
  
“Bit weird, isn’t it — not having to worry about me dad or Mimi or someone walking in on us.”  
  
“S’fucking brilliant, you are,” John mumbled, as he led Paul over to the narrow bed and pushed him down on his back, head cradled against the pillow.  
  
They spent the next half hour hungrily exploring each other’s mouths, giggling quietly and moaning.  
  
 _“It’s still so new, so unreal, still so fucking amazing, even after two years of snoggin’ and wanking each other off in our bedrooms,”_ John mused,  _“kissin’ him like this on that bloody the golf course, in the Church cemetery, for Christ’s sakes..."_  
  
John’s hands roamed down over Paul’s stomach and stroked the bulge in his trousers, as Paul closed his eyes and turned his head away, mouth wide open, breathing fast. John relished these moments when Paul surrendered to his touch, let himself be overwhelmed by the ache to feel John’s fingers. He loved those rare, stolen moments when Paul gave up control…to John’s hands.  
  
“Paul, luv, I wanna to try something. Ok?” John groaned against Paul’s neck.  
  
“Uh — ok.” Paul whispered, not opening his eyes.  
  
John slowly kissed his way down Paul’s body until he was nuzzling Paul’s hard cock with his nose; Paul’s breath hitched sharply and his prick throbbed and twitched, as John’s lips mouthed the length of his shaft beneath his trouser fabric.  
  
“Can I lick you, Paul?”  
  
“Fuck, we can’t do that, John. I mean, we haven’t done anything like….”  
  
With a low growl, John’s mouth squeezed Paul’s cock.  
  
“Yes.”  Paul moaned, barely coherent.  
  
“Open your eyes, luv.”  
  
“Huh? What?” Paul looked down into John’s dark, lusty gaze. “Why?”  
  
“You are gonna watch me suck your cock, Paul.” John ordered with a slight, sweet smile, as he pulled Paul’s pulsing dick out of his trousers and slid him between his lips, gently scraping Paul with his lower teeth.  
  
Paul didn’t last long. Hell, he’d had blowjobs before. Well, one anyway, from a bird he barely knew, in a storage closet after a show at the Casbah in West Derby last year. Paul was pretty pissed at the time, and the crazy bird sucked him too hard and too fast. Paul had been so worried that she was gonna fucking bite his dick off that he barely enjoyed it.  
  
But here, safe in the small room far away from home, John took his time, skillfully changing the tempo and the force of his engulfing kisses. He teased and tugged and nibbled.  
  
And Paul lost his fucking mind. He surrendered control to John’s mouth.  
  
  
  
After three days of helping Bette in the kitchen, tending bar with Mike, and making a bit of money here and there, the two were comfortably settled in, warmed by the temporary oasis of their cozy spare room.  
  
“Guess we’ll be headin’ back home then, Mike.” Paul casually tossed out one morning over another delicious breakfast and cups of piping hot tea. John looked up from his plate, frowning.  
  
“What? Come off it. You can miss a bit of bloody school, Paul.” John grumbled, in between chews.  
  
“Ha! Bette told me that ol’ Jim was worried about your Woolton friend’s bad influence, Paul, m’lad!” Mike laughed, patting John affectionately on the back.  
  
“Ol’ Mr. Mac should be worried,” John bit back with smirk, “I’m a swine.”  
  
“Well, we brought our guitars — so, um, we could give you and Bette a farewell show, play some tunes, if you want.” Paul chimed in a bit nervously.  
  
“Bloody fantastic idea, that is, Paul. Bit of entertainment for the midday regulars! Can you two draw up some adverts? Stick ‘em in the pub window, and I’ll have Bette drop some off about town.”  
  
That night, the two sat on the bed in the spare room, paper and pens spread out on the covers.  
  
“Nerk twins?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s perfect. Just shut yer gob and write it.” John barked with warmth as he stubbed his smoke out. He leaned over and kissed Paul on the nose, whispering, “I don’t wanna fuckin’ leave, Paul.”  
  
“Yeah, got to, though, don't we? Soon, anyroad.” Paul brushed John’s hair out of his hazel eyes. “We’ll stay on for a couple more days, play for the lunch crowd, right?”  
  
“What if we don’t go back?   Fuck school.   Fuck lousy gigs.   Fuck Liverpool.”  
  
“Fuck the band?”  
  
“Fuck Johnny and his Moondogs’ arses!” The two rolled around laughing and grabbing for each other. Pens and paper scattered to the floor. When their tumble turned into a heavy, sloppy snog session, John paused briefly and quietly spoke, “Just you and me, luv. The Nerk Twins, topping the charts with bloody brilliant original numbers….”  
  
~~~~~

  
 **1962**  
  
John’s pounding silence was interrupted by the loud slam of a heavy service door at the back of the squalid pub.  
  
“We have to end this, John.”  
  
There, it was out. Paul nearly collapsed in his own hands.  
  
“Why?” John choked, his throat already tight with anticipation and dread.  
  
“We have to choose, John. It’s either we keep doing this, or we make it as a band and maybe it becomes real and all.’ Paul paused and swallowed, “It’s either this — us — or our fuckin’ dream. We can’t have both. S’not allowed.” Paul’s voice tapered off to a breathless whisper.  
  
“You make it sound pretty simple, don’t ya? No big deal, right?”  
  
John rose quickly enough to almost disguise the fact that his whole body was shaking violently.  
  
“I reckon it’s like having to choose between your mum and your dad, isn’t it? Which one do ya love more, Johnny boy?   Fuck. You. Paul!”  
  
Without another word, John stormed out of the smelly hole blindly into the night.  
  
Paul remained frozen in the booth, stuck in the concrete of his thoughts. Sobs welled in up his chest as he fought to keep his composure long enough to get the fuck out of there and make his own escape.  
  
Then a deep, sarcastic voice sounded in Paul’s ear.  
  
“’Lo, mate. Seems like you and John had another fight, huh, over the contract or something?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Paul,” George bent down, white hot with anger, and sneered at Paul, “You just broke his heart. I don’t care what the fuck you have to do, fix it.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**1962**  
  
His mind was spinning and his pulse raced uncontrollably, pounding loud like a bass drum in his head. Although he could feel air filling his lungs, Paul couldn’t breath. Worse, his stomach churned and flipped in sharp fits. Somehow, Paul tore himself from the booth seat and sprang to his feet.  
  
He shoved his way past George without apology, and made it out to the street in front of the pub entrance, just in time to throw up the food and drink from Brian’s fucking party earlier that evening. And three stale pints from this shit hole. He puked his insides out all over the filthy pavement.  
  
“Fuckin ‘ell.” He wiped off his mouth with his jacket sleeve, breathing hard. After a few more dry wretches, Paul realized that he had nothing left in his stomach.  
  
Paul was empty.  
  
Shivering, he staggered down the dark block a few more yards, closed his eyes and bent over as he tried to steady his feet and his brain.  
  
“John.” Paul cried his name so softly that he barely made a sound, his hands pulling his hair in frustration.  
  
Then he saw the toes of a pair of black boots come into focus on the sidewalk beneath his downturned eyes.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Don’t see him anywhere, Paul. Don’t know how, but he must ‘ave run off like a bat outta hell — a fuckin’ blind bat, the git.”  
  
Paul raised his head and looked into George’s eyes, lit under the dim streetlights by a mixture of anger and disappointment.  
  
“For Christ’s sakes, Geo. How long have you — known?”  
  
“Known about what? Known about you and John?” George chuckled sarcastically, still unable to disguise his bitterness over Paul’s latest fuck up.  
  
“A while, s’ppose. Definitely knew you were fuckin’ each other back in Hamburg.” George took a deep breath and looked away.  
  
“Were we…? Shit, was it that bloody obvious?” Paul practically choked out the sentence, his whole chest aching.  
  
“Um, yeah, Paul. You were pretty fuckin’ obvious.” George took another long breath, trying to straighten out his own thoughts. “Clear as day to me, anyroad.”  
  
George’s eyes nervously scanned the dark streets before he turned back to his friend.  
  
“Maybe I knew about you and John earlier — I dunno for sure, really.  I just sort of ‘ave always known something was a bit off with you two, I guess.”  
  
“John and me were never… What the fuck did you just call us?  A bit  _off_?”  
  
His tired eyes welling up with sadness and rage, Paul snapped back at his old friend.  
  
“John and me were… Shit, we are…”  
  
A loud crashing noise from a nearby building, followed by muffled, genderless shouts, drowned out Paul’s last sounds – sounds of words that he still didn’t have the guts to say out loud in front of his younger friend anyway.  
  
At least, Paul thought, he’d finally said those words out loud to John.  
  
In Paris.  
  
Last year.  
  
In the bath.  
  
Something made of glass was thrown out a window down the street, smashing into pieces on the sidewalk.  
  
“We gotta get the fuck out of this shite neighborhood, Paul.” George warned with a flicker of panic in his voice, grabbing Paul by the sleeve of his jacket.  
  
“Bugger off! I gotta find him, Geo!” Paul yelled as he pulled his arm back, determined not to budge but also unable to move his legs.  
  
“Face it, Paul. He’s not here… probably more than half way home by now.”  
  
George roughly grasped Paul again, and pulled him up close.  
  
“John’s long gone, you stupid prick.”  
  
When George smacked him with those words, Paul almost lost it. He wanted to cry, or just beat the piss out of George, but he could barely move his limbs, weak with exhaustion from the release of all the tension he’d been holding inside all day, and all that fucking rich party food.  
  
Paul hated nothing more than losing control of himself in front of anyone.  
  
Except in front of John, sometimes.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1961**  
  
George, Pete and Bob sat in a small circle of upholstered chairs outside of Epstein’s office door, still wrapped in their winter coats, impatient and uncomfortable. John sat in the back corner, slouched down in his seat, chain smoking, his eyes closed.  
  
They were about an hour late for their first official meeting, so Epstein kept them waiting out there for no real reason, at least for a while. It was the principle of it, Brian reckoned.  
  
“So, we’re all here, right boys?” Brian shouted in his singsong, educated accent as he looked out through his open door into the waiting area.  
  
“Missing Paul,” George muttered.  
  
Brian bounced out of his office and into the waiting room. “It’s getting late, lads. Should we just start looking over the draft of the contract now?”  
  
“We wait.” John commanded in a low voice, as he sunk down further and pulled his cap down over his eyes.  
  
Half an hour, and half a pack of smokes later, Paul turned up at Brian’s office, serenely calm and freshly bathed. He wore a long, navy wool coat, his neck wrapped in his old school scarf, his hair perfect despite the wet snowflakes, cheeks flushed from the cold. As always, he made a beeline for John.  
  
“Nice of ya to show up, Macca, m’dear. All washed and clean smelling, huh?” John smiled quietly. He winked at Paul from underneath his hat, his own frayed nerves already enjoying the familiar caress of Paul’s presence.  
  
Paul was late, not a surprise really.  But now he was here, with him.   John exhaled deeply.  
  
“Ready to sign yer bleedin’ life away, son?”  
  
Paul leaned down and whispered, “S’ppose so, luv.”  
  
He tugged John’s cap up slightly to look into his eyes. “You alright, John?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be, darlin’?  Seeing as I’m all lubed and prepped, ya know, to take it up the arse from this posh Epstein queer,” John snickered as he discretely touched the back of Paul's thigh with two fingers.  
  
  
On that snowy, December afternoon, they all signed the makeshift contract that declared Mr. Brian Samuel Epstein, aspiring business genius and wannabe band pimp, the manager of the Beatles. They all signed their names, except Brian of course.  
  
Brian, posh queer extraordinaire, didn’t sign the management contract.  
  
It was a control thing.  
  
And that arrogant non-act of Mr. fucking Epstein completely pissed off soapy-smelling Paul.  
  
It was a control thing.  
  
  
  
As the group celebrated the huge little event with cheap cigars and half-filled tumblers of cheaper scotch, Paul looked up across the table through his thick dark locks to find Brian’s eyes fixed like glue on something.  
  
On John.  
  
On his John.  
  
And then Paul was really pissed off.  
  
Right fucking pissed off.  
  
  
  
“S’all done now. A pact with the bloody devil himself!” The auburn haired ringleader put down his glass, clapped his hands and laughed wickedly.  
  
John’s catlike eyes narrowed on Brian, as he grabbed the older man hard by the shoulder, “Just make us fuckin’ shitloads of quid, Epstein!” John’s growl pierced and inflamed Brian’s lustful gaze.  
  
Brian stammered with an embarrassed smile, the skin of his shoulder below his business coat smoldering under John’s rough fingers.  
  
“This is going to be huge, John. You’re going to be huge.”  
  
The older man’s flirt was sadly awkward. John just smirked it off.    _“Fuckin’ pathetic poof,”_ he thought.  
  
“Off to Blackburn’s for pints, wankers!” John barked.  
  
“I’ll catch up with ya,” Paul nodded to John, his brow furrowed in thought. Pints with his mates would have to wait.  
  
His eyes glowing with a playful, naughty grin, John moved over close to Paul, and quietly nudged his lover, “Don’t be long, ok? I wanna smell you all clean and soapy before you start stinking like a dirty little whore again.”  
  
As his band mates and Woller made their way noisily down the steps and out the NEMS front door, Paul turned to Brian.  
  
“Can I ‘ave a quick word, Mr. Epstein?” Paul had to make a few things very clear to their new manager. Charm him a bit.  
  
“Of course, Paul. Let’s go inside my office.” Brian gestured toward the half open door.  
  
Paul’s eyes drank in the assortment of leather bound folios, picture frames and travel knick-knacks carefully arranged on the shelves of Epstein’s expensive bookcase. Epstein had money — that was for sure. As he touched the more expensive looking book spines, Paul considered his words carefully.  
  
“You know, Mr. Epstein, I used to schedule a lot of our gigs, do the public relations and all that. Handle the wages. Organize things and such.”  
  
The older man wasn’t sure exactly where Paul was going with this, but he was intrigued.  
  
The boy was sharp, Brian knew that much. And shit, the boy was incredibly beautiful; Brian enjoyed watching his mouth move. And his tight round ass.  
  
“Please call me Brian, won’t you?”  
  
“Alright then.” Paul turned around and paused, preparing himself to use every weapon in his arsenal if he was forced.  
  
“Listen, Brian — we don’t really know you all that well, do we?”  
  
“No, you don’t, Paul.” Brian hesitated, more for effect than anything else, “You’ll just have to trust that I have your best interests at heart. I do, you know.”  
  
“No, I don’t know.”  
  
Paul slowly wrapped his lips around a cigarette, lit it, and sucked in the smoke.  
  
“But John’s right, isn’t he? Now it's your job to get us bookings, get us press, make us rich.”  
  
 _"My goodness, he purrs when he talks like that, doesn't he?"_  thought Brian.  
  
Paul strolled over and leaned one arm on Brian’s desk before speaking again.  
  
“I don’t know you at all, Mr. Epstein.  But I do know that I’ve been with John for four years now, writing songs and playing our arses off in strip bars and lousy clubs. No food, no heat, no money, no privacy.”  
  
Paul leaned in closer, stuck his ass out a bit farther, and took control of the air with his dark eyes. He took another long, deep drag off his cigarette.  
  
“I’ll be watching the papers, you know, Mr. Epstein. Every fuckin thing you sign, or negotiate, or whatever.” Paul let wisps of white smoke roll out of his mouth.  
  
“I’m gonna watch you like a bleedin hawk… Brian. Make right sure that our money gets into our pockets, you know. Make sure that you’re not fuckin’ us — fuckin’ me, fuckin’ Geo, fuckin’ John.”  
  
With that, Paul’s intense glare slowly softened into a seductive smile while Brian sat motionless behind his desk, completely awed and captivated by the sheer balls of this ambitious, gorgeous nineteen year old.  
  
Paul rewound his scarf around his neck and made his way to leave.  
  
“Oh and — Brian,” Paul added flippantly as he popped his head back in the door, “stay the fuck away from John.”  
  
The words slid carelessly out of his mouth, too fast for Paul to grab them and pull them back.  _“Shit,”_  Paul thought, shaking inside.  
  
And that was when Brian figured it out, though he had already suspected. Brian's stern face quickly erupted into a sly grin.  
  
 _“So there’s the chink in your delightful armor, beautiful boy."_  Epstein noted to himself.  
  
“Now Paul, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. I'll take very good care of all of you boys.”  
  
Then Brian took back control from Paul.  
  
“But John, you know… he’s different, isn’t he, Paul? He’s very special. Special to you?”  
  
“I’ll take care of John,” Paul snarled, losing his last shreds of self-composure, jabbing his trembling finger at Brian’s face.  
  
“You fuckin’ take care of the business shit, Epstein. And get us the fuck out of Liverpool.” Paul was practically shouting as he stormed out his new handler's office.  
  
Paul couldn’t tell if he was more furious with Brian or with himself.  
  
 _“Shit, he knows.”_   Paul worried as he raced down the stairs to get the hell out of the NEMS building.  
  
 _“Course the old pansy knows, McCartney — now that you just about told him straight to his face, you stupid fuck.”_

He really needed that pint now; but even more urgent, he desperately needed John.


	6. Chapter 6

**1962**   
  


_“Where the ‘ell are ya, John?”_  
  
Paul hadn’t seen or heard from John in years.  
  
Well, it had been less than a week really that Paul had last seen John on that shitty night at that shitty pub — but for Paul, it might as well have been a decade.  
  
John had even missed a show at the Cavern that they had scheduled but were instead forced to cancel. He had never done anything like that before, blown off a gig like that. Even when he was falling down drunk, pissed out of his bloody mind, John would always show up. It wasn’t pleasant, but he’d show up.  
  
Paul worried that something might be really wrong, that maybe he was hurt, in the hospital or something. Paul found it hard even to picture John injured, bleeding in pain. But those horrid images somehow seemed less disturbing than the alternative – that maybe John had just quit the band, quit Paul, without a word to anyone.  
  
And without John, there was no fucking band, there was no fucking recording contract in London.  
  
“ _You gotta fix this, somehow.”_  
  
Paul anguished to himself, as he stood on the street in front of the brick building, looking at the window of the one room flat on the second floor. He didn’t know where to look for John – Cyn’s sad little hole in the wall was as likely a spot as any to find his missing mate.  
  
 _“Cyn’s probably still furious that I dumped Dot. Shit.”_  
  
In the light of mid-morning, he also wondered if John might be looking out the window down at him, on him.  
  
“ _Probably not. Probably still sleeping, if he’s even up there, the lazy wanker.”_  
  
Fifteen minutes later, having tried to convince himself to just leave and go back to home before he did run into his crazy ex-girlfriend who he’d been trying to avoid for weeks, Paul knocked on the bed-sit door with a heavy pounding, palms sweaty from nerves.  
  
“Bloody ‘ell.”  
  
A twenty-one year old, sleep-deprived John groaned as he rolled over on the bed. He scratched his balls, tried to open his eyes, reached for his glasses, and thought about getting up off the pile of soiled bed covers.  
  
“Who the fuck’s there?”  
  
“It’s me, John.   Paul.”  
  
After some rustling noises and mumbled profanities, the door opened slowly.  
  
And there was John — his John — wearing loose pajama bottoms and a wrinkled T-shirt that was too small and used to belong to Paul.  
  
“Fuck, he looks good,” Paul thought.  
  
John's maple brown hair was sticking out in crazy, random directions, as if he’d just finished shagging a couple of birds between the sheets. That, along with his heavy framed glasses, would have made John look comical, if it hadn’t been for those fucking daggers burning in his green-brown eyes behind the thick lenses.  
  
“What do ya want, Paul?”  
  
The rest of John’s expressionless face was as cold as ice.  
  
Paul felt a shiver run up his spine, even though it was already too warm for a typical June morning in northern England.  
  
“John, who is that?” Cyn’s faint voice came from somewhere behind the open door.  
  
“McCartney, ” John hollered back to her over his shoulder.  
  
“John, I need to talk to you,” Paul said quietly, looking into John’s eyes, trying to find any bit of warmth in them. Paul’s arms were folded and his hands were clenched in tight fists at his sides. He couldn’t stop chewing on his lower lip.  
  
Satisfied that his arse of a boyfriend… well, his fucking ex-boyfriend, anyway… was at least acting pretty upset, John exhaled and relaxed a bit. He leaned against the door jam and crossed his arms, as he spied Paul with something close to disgust.  
  
“I won’t skip out on another gig. Ok, mother?” He mocked bitterly.  
  
“I didn’t come here to bug ya about that, John. Please, John — can we talk?”  
  
Paul was now close to begging, his eyes watering up with desperation. He moved towards John to touch him, but before Paul could get close enough, John pulled back.  
  
“Come in then.” John said flatly, raking his fingers through his hair. “Cyn’s ‘ere.”  
  
After a few uncomfortable minutes and a cigarette, Paul regained some of his composure. A rather disheveled Cynthia, wrapped in a floral dressing gown and pale blue slippers, emerged from the tiny washroom.  
  
 _“Looking extra plain today… even for you, Cyn,”_  Paul snorted to himself.  If he was in a certain mood, Paul could be a catty dick.  
  
Her fake blond hair matted to one side of her head, her eyes puffy and red, Cyn looked like she might have been crying earlier.  
  
 _“She cries a bloody awful lot, doesn’t she?”_  Paul noticed.  
  
Paul still hadn’t really figured out why John fucked Cynthia Powell, let alone why John had dated her for so long.  
  
It wasn’t that Paul didn’t care for her. He really did like her, especially when she wasn’t around. Cyn was kind-hearted and kind of pretty. But she was too uptight, insecure, and submissive, almost cowering sometimes.  
  
And her tits weren’t that great either.  
  
“Mornin’ Cyn. Warm day, huh?” Paul nodded and grinned politely, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels.  
  
“Oh hello, Paul. Haven’t seen you in a while — have we, John?” She replied coolly, as she went over and gave John a peck on the cheek.  
  
 _“There you are!   Paul ‘the manwhore’ McCartney, in the flesh.  Nope, haven’t seen you in a long time.  Least not since you broke Dot’s heart, you chicken-shit prick.”_   Cynthia chuckled to herself obscene words that she would never say out loud.  Cynthia didn’t say a lot of what she thought out loud.  
  
John watched the lovely little tense exchange between his girlfriend and his boyfriend — his fucking ex-boyfriend — with amusement. After stubbing out his smoke, John gathered up Cyn in his arms with care. Looking straight into her slightly swollen eyes, he spoke to her in a low silky voice.  
  
“Make us some tea, luv.”  
  
Paul recognized that John was being — well —unusually tender with Cyn this morning.  
  
 _“Probably just trying to fuckin’ hurt me,”_ Paul swallowed.  _“Serves me right.”_  
  
It wasn’t a big deal, really.  
  
Paul was used to seeing John’s public displays of affection for Cyn. John and Cyn holding hands, John and Cyn snoggin’ at the pictures, John and Cyn exchanging kisses as they strolled side by side down Liverpool’s streets.  
  
Shit. One night when he and John had planned to meet up for tryst at the deserted art college after hours, Paul walked in instead on John fucking poor Cyn like a rabid wolf, in an empty ceramics studio. Easily distracted and constantly randy, two of John’s more endearing traits, the guitarist had somehow forgotten that he was supposed to be ravaging his bassist, not his dreary bird, over that potter’s wheel in the center of the room.  
  
Over the years, Paul had gotten very used to seeing them together as a cuddly couple when they all went out for pints after a gig and such, but it still hurt him. It hurt him mostly because John couldn’t cuddle and smooch Paul — in public — ever.  
  
And John fucking knew his exaggerated lovey-dovey antics with Cyn really hurt Paul. He did it, he reckoned, because Paul most certainly would never snog him with that beautiful fuckin’ mouth… would never admit how much he loved John Lennon — in public — ever.  Fuck him.  
  
“Paul and me — are going out — Cyn.” John said between sloppy kisses to her forehead as he tried, in vain, to untangle some of her messy hair with his fingers.  
  
“Um, alright, dear. I’ll just tidy up a bit around here then.”  
  
“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it, Cyn. Just rest.”  
  
John bent down and nuzzled her cheek with his nose. With the same nose that he'd nuzzled Paul's cock back in Reading.  
  
“But first make us some tea, luv. And you're out of those chocolate biscuits, so get some more, right. Oh… and me brown trousers over there could use a press. Hey, Cyn, ‘ave you got some money for cigs?”  
  
Despite the fact that he had matured into a very talented musician and a generous lover, John Lennon was still a fucking shithead of a boyfriend.  
  
**************************************************************  
  
 **1960**  
  
It happened in Scotland.  
  
Not in Paris, not in Hamburg, not in Miami, but in Scotland.  
  
In the northern city of Inverness, not that far from the infamous Loch Ness and its serpentine monster.  
  
It happened on a cool Saturday night in May.  
  
In the back of Johnny Gentle’s rented van.  
  
Very cliché, really. And not all that romantic.  
  
And, to this day, there is still no tourist sign anywhere in Inverness, Scotland that says:  
  
“ **John Lennon and Sir Paul McCartney had their first queer fuck here!”**


	7. Chapter 7

  
**1960**

That May morning on a busy street in Inverness, while Paul leaned on the outside of the phone box, John screamed bloody murder into the black receiver. Paul couldn’t really hear exactly what John was saying to the bloke on the other end of the call, but he could tell without a doubt that John was furious.

John stuck his head out of the box, his foul temper magically gone, replaced with his warm smile and calm voice. He could do that, ya know, change his mood, his whole fucking expression, in an instant. That never ceased to amaze Paul.

“Got couple of bob for us, luv? I wanna tell this Parnes prick precisely how and where he can shove his shitty Scotland gig for just a bit more, eh?”

Paul chuckled, checked his trouser pockets and shrugged, “Sorry, I’m skint.”

John rolled his eyes in annoyance and closed the door back behind him. After a few more shouts, John threw the handset, almost broke the cord, and accidently hit himself in the leg.

“Fuckin’ bollocks!” John spewed, as he came out into the daylight and lit up.

“Did he say when we’re getting our wages then?”

“Yeah — never!” John’s attitude was now viciously sour, so Paul decided wisely to just shut up and be quiet.

John exhaled to calm himself down. “Bastard lied, again.”

Paul stayed quiet.

“There’s no wages comin’ anytime soon as far as I can tell, Paul.” John looked down at his boots until he finished his smoke, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, and then turned his gaze up into Paul’s waiting face.

Paul stayed quiet.

Then John said, matter-of-factly, “Sorry, darlin’ — but we’re gonna have to rent your mouth out to earn some quid.”

Relieved at the latest abrupt change in John’s temper, Paul waggled his eyebrows and jested, “Where do ya think old Scottish queers look for lads around ‘ere anyroad? Ya know, Johnny, I’ve ‘eard them blokes let it dangle in the breeze under those kilts of theirs... ”

Laughing while shielding his eyes with his hand, John pretended to look up and down the crowded street, in love with the little game they were now playing. In love with Paul, though he’d never spoken those exact words, even to himself.

“Dunno, really. But we’ll need to put those sweet lips of yers on a fuckin’ busy poof corner if the children are all gonna eat tonight, dear. ”

After a few more minutes of just standing around bullshitting the way best friends do, while busy local commuters scurried past them, the young men were soon delightfully distracted by each other. Paul had almost forgetten that Parnes was reneging on the tour contract and that they were nearly out of pocket money.

“Well, we’ve the day off. Do ya wanna do something then? Gotta be cheap, though.” Paul asked.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, for Christ’s sakes! Hey… do ya think ya can get the key for the van from that Tony bloke?”

“Can try.”

Wearing his most precious face, feigning promises in his most responsible sounding voice, Paul eventually convinced big Tony, the hired driver and incompetent tour watchdog, to lend him the key.

And as Paul swore for the fifth fucking time that he wouldn’t smash up the old piece of shit van, he thought behind his sincere, angelic mask, _“Ya know that Lennon arse that you hate, Tony? Yeah, well, I’m gonna suck him so dry that his gorgeous balls are gonna fall off… in the van…in the van that I am not gonna fuckin crash, ya twat!”_

Apparently Paul at least had some idea already of what he would be doing on their day off.

Ever since John had introduced him to the sweet ecstasy of an amazing blowjob back in Reading, Paul had decided that sucking John dry with his luscious mouth to the point of babbling incoherence was his new favorite sport.

It was a control thing.

 

 

The rented white van was fairly large, with a row seat behind the front bench, the back gutted out for equipment storage. As the soon-to-be eighteen year old tried to maneuver the unwieldy tank around a city he didn’t know, he asked, “So where we going, John?”

“How the fuck do I know, luv. What’s there to do around ‘ere — ‘sides sheep?”

Paul smiled as he turned his head to change traffic lanes.

“Hmm, well, Loch Ness isn’t that far  — reckon we’d be there in under a half hour or so with this traffic. S’pposed to be nice.”

“Cor! Shit, yes! I wanna see the fuckin’ snake!” John almost squealed, his excited eyes magnified his heavy lenses, bouncing up and down like a spastic in the front passenger’s seat.

Chuckling, Paul replied, in a mock parental tone, “It’s not a snake, John. It’s a sea serpent or a lake dragon, or something.” Paul enjoyed these moments when his best mate let himself be a bubbly, stupid little kid. It suited John.

“I don’t care what the fuck it is, Paul, I wanna see it!”

“Christ, John — the whole thing’s just a legend, ya know — a hoax, maybe. Wishful thinking, mostly. It’s not real.”

“Course it’s real, Paul. Ya just have to be able to see what’s possible — what’s really there — ‘specially when nobody else can.”

John smiled broadly as he gently poked Paul in the side of the head with one finger.

“Anything can be true, Paul, if you just open up yer narrow. Fuckin’. Pretty. Little. Mind. Anything, luv.” John added somewhat wistfully as he turned to glance out the van window.

Then he took off his specs, leaned over and softly kissed Paul on the cheek.

“Now take me to see the snake in the lake! Pretty please!”

Ten minutes out of Inverness’ town center, Paul was enthusiastically explaining the history of the Loch Ness Monster legend. Shit, he studied it back in school and had gotten a really good mark on his paper, but John didn’t seem all that interested.

John was instead far away in his own mind, glasses perched uselessly on his head, sucking on a smoke and jotting scribbles in his ever-present notebook, as the serene Scottish high country rolled by.

_“Probably sketching bizarre pictures, too — of that fucking snake doing god knows what,”_  Paul mused to himself, as he rolled down the window to let the crisp late spring air clear out some of the stale stench of sweat and motor oil.

They hadn’t spent much time alone together since this trip started three days ago, what with them all shoved into the stinking van for hours and then into one big hostel room with two of the other acts. Worse, Paul thought, they hadn’t found nearly enough stolen time alone back in Liverpool since they returned from their holiday reverie at Bette’s last month. Sure, it was exciting to be on a real tour, playing halls and ballrooms far away from home and all, but it was hard not having some down time to write, to think, to touch John.

At least they had managed to grab a hand job in the loo back in whatever city that was called. Complaining that he was just gonna explode and die if John didn’t empty him, the randy boy cajoled his boyfriend with kisses and sultry, submissive pleas in the washroom stall. John quickly pumped him while he held Paul’s mouth hard with his own hungry lips, Paul’s face cupped forcefully in John’s strong fingers; Paul, already close to collapse even before he even felt John’s warm hand on his cock, buckled quietly into the older guitarist’s arms, temporarily satiated, not more than five minutes before they went up on stage. That turned out to be a bloody great show.

And now Paul was more than ready to return the favor.

Hell, he had fantasized just last night about getting up off his own shit mattress in the hostel room, creeping between the sleeping bodies scattered everywhere, and slipping under the bed covers of John’s kip. He almost did it too — well, not really — but as he imagined pulling back his covers to get up, fucking Tommy Moore woke up half of the room with one bellowing snore.

“Shut the fuck up, ya cunt!”

In the room lit only by a bit of light filtering in from an old street lamp, Paul smiled across his pillow at John’s raw growl. John winked back at him, though Paul was sure that John couldn’t really see his face clearly without his glasses. Paul thought he heard John whisper, “Miss ya,” but it might have just been wishful thinking.

So it was pretty fucking astounding that he hadn’t already pulled the old van over to the side of the road and mauled John senseless. But since John was now blindly obsessed with seeing the bleedin’ snake, snoggin’ and suckin’ would wait, for a while anyway.

Twenty-five minutes later, Paul backed the van into a deserted turn off perched above a spectacular panorama of the deep, dark Scottish loch. It was a Tolkien landscape – rays of sun highlighting swatches of the green hills rich with spring’s lush grasses, other sun beams peeking out from beneath the thick dark clouds, hanging high and ominous. It was the perfect, idyllic spot to see the fucking snake.

“How long ya s’ppose we’ll have to wait then?” John asked sincerely, like an innocent child, as they got out and went round to the back of the van to take in the view.

Paul looked at him with an expression of adoration and disbelief as he opened the back doors.

“Dunno. Might be a while. Might not happen at all, ya know, John.”

“Sure it will. Has to, doesn’t it?”

“Why then?”

“Well, I reckon that if I can’t see the fuckin’ thing, then it might not really be real. And that would be a bloody shame, wouldn’t it, Paul?”

“Yeah, it would, luv,” Paul chuckled. “C’mon, let’s sit down back here and see what ‘appens.”

After an hour or so, and too many cigarettes, they thought they saw something skim across the loch, but practical Paul decided that it was only a small fishing boat. Soon John was getting restless, just as Paul had expected he would.

“I’m fuckin bored, Paul.” He rumbled low as he wrapped his arm around Paul’s waist and buried his face in Paul’s hair. “How ‘bout we play with your snake for a while, darlin’?”

“I was thinkin’ just the opposite, John. Have been for a couple of days, ya know.” Paul winked.

He gently pushed John back down on the floor of the old van. The back of the van was dark, lit only by light rays seeping in through the small upper side windows, crisscrossing each other in the open space like lights on a stage. In the back of the tour van, it smelled like worn guitar cases, dusty amp equipment and leather. It smelled like rock and roll.

After they both kicked their boots off, Paul ran his left hand over John’s clothed body, as he kissed and nibbled his jaw and neck, his right fingers worming their way through John’s silky hair. Cool air from the loch blew in the open van doors as Paul peeled John’s leather pants off, trailing his own talented fingers with his own warm lips on John’s shivering skin.

As Paul took him deep down his throat, John tenderly groaned, “Let’s try something, ok? No reason — why we both can’t — be enjoying this, luv.”

“I am enjoying this,” Paul moaned, as he pulled John back into his wet mouth.

John smiled as he pushed Paul off of him slowly. With a deliberate, acrobatic move, John pulled Paul up and flipped him around over his own half-naked body. Hungrily, John stripped Paul’s trousers down over his ass and pushed them down to past his knees as Paul waited, shaking, trying desperately to support himself on his hands and knees. Teasing Paul’s inner thigh with his lips, holding him up by his narrow hips, John leisurely took Paul into his mouth while Paul bent down to resume his passionate sucking.

_“Now this is fuckin’ unbelievable,”_  Paul moaned to himself, lost in the sensations of John’s lips enveloping his prick, John’s nose brushing his balls, John's fingers stroking the back of his thighs, John’s cock throbbing in his own mouth.

Then he heard a low chuckle, and looked down and back at the older boy.

“What? You ok?” Paul barely whispered.

“Yeah, fine.” John continued to snort softly. “Just never s’pected I’d ever ‘ave another bloke’s sack smotherin’ me face, that’s all. Funny, somehow… sorry.”

They both surrendered to the intense, intimate pleasure a few minutes later, sweat soaking through their shirts under their leather jackets. Paul soon fell asleep, spent and exhausted, the fierce cravings that he’d been holding back for days now satisfied. Tucked underneath an old blanket used to cushion the equipment, he drifted off to dreams of the future, his future with John.

John’s mind, however, was alert and buzzing with thoughts. He sat in the back of the van for two hours while Paul slept safe by his side, writing in his notebook between quick glances at the glassy, foreboding surface of the loch.

When Paul started to stir, John whispered, “Afternoon, beautiful.”

Paul rubbed his eyes and raked his hair,

“Afternoon? Cor, did I fall asleep?”

John just chuckled and turned towards his boyfriend, as Paul rose to sit up. They fell into a warm cuddle, Paul’s head resting on John’s shoulder. “Shit, John, look!”

John turned his gaze around slowly to where Paul’s finger was pointing.

“Did you see something then, luv?”

“Fuck, I think I just saw it! Over there — lookin’ at me. S’not there anymore, though.” Paul’s eyes were wide with childlike wonder. “Bloody ‘ell, that was amazing.”

“Yeah, s’ppose it was.” John laughed back into Paul’s ear.

John had see Nessie three times while Paul had slept. Had talked to her even.

“Did ya enjoy the show, old girl?”

It was wasn't wishful thinking after all, John reckoned. But of course, he already knew she was real.  Had to be.

“Shit, I’m starving,” Paul exhaled. “Better head back to town soon, huh? Get the van back and all.”

“In a while, Paul. Let’s just be here for bit longer, ok?” John soothed, nuzzling his face into Paul’s thick locks.

Quietly they sat and smoked, watching the dark loch change colors under the early afternoon sun, Paul leaning back into John’s protective embrace.

They didn’t see the fuckin’ snake again.

 

~~~~~

 

Loch monsters.  Fairy-tale legends. Ghostly sightings. 

Strange things happen in the Scottish highlands.

Like the unnatural way that the boy was shoving fistfuls of chips into his mouth like a starving dog, practically daring John to punch him in the face with each annoying, slobbery mouthful.

“For Christ sakes, Paul, would ya leave some for the rest of Britain, ya fuckin’ pig!” John barked with a slight smirk, as he stepped back from the chip counter and lit a cigarette. 

“What? Oh… sorry,” Paul mumbled between chews, looking up at John beneath his heavy lids and disheveled hair, realizing that he had just about finished the entire order that he and John were supposed to be divvying up. “Only one, John… we’ll share,” Paul had warned earlier, when they walked into the small, crowded chip shop on the way back to Inverness, fearful that their funds would completely run out before wages were wired to them by Parnes’ office. 

“Sorry, Johnny, I’m just so bloody famished. Didn’t mean to nick your chips. ‘ere, you want these last two?”

“Nah, I’m alright. Not hungry, really. You go on. Could use a fuckin’ pint, though!”

“No quid for pints, mate.” Paul reminded John, as he wolfed down another bite. 

John turned away, disgusted with their current penniless condition. 

“Fuck Parnes.  And fuck Williams, too. Trust me, luv. Soon we’ll have lorries of money.” John took a deep drag, exhaling as he spoke, “Rooms of guitars and all the bloody best gear — shit, more birds than even you and me can screw the arse off without our pricks shriveling up.” 

“Hmm, yeah. That’ll be good, John.” Paul stared out in space, his face serious with thought. “I wanna family someday too. You know, kids runnin’ ‘round the lawn, laughing and playin’ the games we used to play when we were lads.”

“You, my son, are still a wee lad.”

“Not after the past two years with you, I’m fuckin’ not.” Paul snorted with a flirtatious smile. “What about you, John? You want kids someday then?”

John leaned in a bit and whispered, “You plannin’ on get me preggars, Macca?” 

“You? You couldn’t handle it, John — the pain and blood and all. Too soft.”  Paul snickered, as he chewed his last mouthful of food. 

With eyes narrow and dark, John leaned in a bit more and drowned his spent smoke in Paul’s half-empty water glass. 

“Pardon, McCartney. Did you just fuckin’ say that I’m not  _man_  enough to have a baby?” John replied low with a clenched jaw.

Paul though about it seriously for a split second, and then cracked up, sprayin’ out a few of his half-chewed bits on the counter as he tried to cover his mouth, bent over in snorting giggles. John leaned back to watch him and just smiled. 

The older guitarist loved that this playful lad, and his best mate, completely got his twisted sense of wordplay, his warped mind. Among his many charming traits, Paul was very sharp and had a quick wit, two characteristics John cherished, almost as much as much as he relished Paul’s fuckable mouth. Add to that the fact that Paul was his brilliant, talented partner and band mate, let alone his secret lover. John was fucking besotted with boy. 

Christ, Paul didn’t have to worry about Stu. Paul did however have to worry about Stu’s wretched bass playing. 

It was nearly dark by the time they made their way back into the town center. Unexpectedly, Paul pulled the van over to an abrupt stop on a street just a couple of blocks away from the shit hostel where they were staying in Inverness. 

“What are doing? Ya can’t be lost. Even I know we’re kippin’ at that hole just ‘round that corner over there,” John gestured.

“I’m not ready to go back there just yet. Not ready to just sit ‘round playing cards with the other blokes — ‘sides, this is our only night off on this shitty tour, John.”

John took his glasses off and lifted his eyebrows as he looked over at Paul’s blurred profile. 

“What do ya have in mind, then? Find a decent pub, settle in over pints for a while, right?” 

“John, luv — we’ve no fuckin’ quid for pints.”

“Shit.” 

Well, what then? What the fuck are we gonna do in this bloody city at night with no quid?” Sometimes even John Lennon, genius prick that he was, could be a bit thick, especially after a good lapping.

“I dunno. Maybe find some place ‘round ‘ere to be alone, John. Just you and me. Ya know, before we go back to that room packed with all those tossers farting and snoring.”

“James Paul McCartney,” John replied in a high-pitched, outlandish imitation of an old woman, “I’ve already sucked your cock soft and silly, m’dear. My, you bonnie Scottish lads are insatiable!”

Paul didn’t so much as smile, much to John’s displeasure. Instead, Paul’s face bore a concentrated but slightly wary expression. 

“John, luv, I’m thinkin’ that I wanna try something tonight — something well, different, ok?”

“I figure we’ve tried just about everything two blokes can do, luv.” John chuckled, oblivious to what Paul was talking about… until he finally stopped his whirling brain long enough to actually fucking think about the words that had just slipped uncomfortably out of Paul’s mouth. 

Shit.

“Really?”

“Yeah… really.”

You sure? I mean… ”

“John,” Paul paused. “I’ve been thinkin’ it over for months, ya know?”

“Um, no. I did not know that, Paul.” John turned his incredulous, piercing eyes blindly ahead and stared through the windscreen into the unfocused dark. 

“Not a bloody mind reader.”  Shit, John had always expected that he’d have to be the one to suggest crossing that fuckin’ line in the sand. 

As he turned back to Paul, his voice became a whisper softer and silkier. “I do know that I’ve been wankin’ off to that — um —possibility for a while. For a long while now.” 

Paul finally exhaled deeply and laughed softly. “Yeah, me too, John. Seems a bit daft, doesn’t it, that we’re both tossin’ off to something we could — I dunno — at least — try.”

“Paul, luv, I hate to shatter your illusions about me, ya know, as a sex god and all. But — I’ve never actually done that.”

“Neither have I, John.”

“Yeah, figured as much, luv,” John chuckled as he scratched the side of his nose. 

“Blind leadin’ the fuckin’ blind, is it Paul?”

“Well… unlike you, luv, I’m not completely blind.”

“Pardon?”

“Well, I figured some things out. Did some, um, research.”

John was strangely amused by the prissy schoolboy lilt of the sentence that had just sputtered out of Paul’s mouth, what with his boyfriend sitting there in the van wearing a black leather jacket, his stomach filled with chips and cum. 

“Research? I’m not sure I wanna know exactly what kinda research you mean, darlin’. “ 

John paused. In another abrupt Lennon mood swing, his heart suddenly swelling with insecurity, John snapped at his boyfriend.

“What did ya do, Paul. Did Stu show ya how it’s done?” 

Paul had by now almost convinced himself that Stu was a real threat to his love for John, not just his love for the band. Paul’s growing jealousy was becoming too obvious and fuckin’ annoying. John’s nasty remark hurt. John meant it to hurt. 

Now uneasy and angry, Paul tensed for a moment, cursing inside. 

“No, John. Stu said he’d already lessoned you in arse fuckin’.”  Paul returned the slap, a bit weak, but with just enough edge to make John back off, slightly. 

For his part, John realized that bickering with Paul, as entertaining as it was, wasn’t gonna help warm the boy up for a good shag. 

“Paul, what the fuck are we talkin’ ‘bout ‘here?” What do ya mean that you figured some things out?”

“I had a chat with my old literature teacher at the Inny. You know — that bloke that always wore the orange jumper. That poof bloke with wiry blond hair?”

John bit back. He usually did. 

“Ha! So you got a private tutorial from your queer teacher then, did ya?” John couldn’t stop the bitter words from darting off his tongue. Whatever he though of Paul’s recent unreasonable behavior about Stu, John’s irrational jealousy was impossible to predict or control. 

“No, John.” Paul was getting quite tired of John’s shit. But Paul also really, really wanted to fuck John, even if it cost him a bit of embarrassment.

“I went to see Chaplain and I told ‘im that I knew someone — that I had a mate — a mate who was nervous, a good bloke really, but he just needed to know some things about how queers actually do it.” 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…” John laughed so hard he had tears running down his cheeks, the tension in the van instantly gone. John’s real laugh had a way of doing that. He just couldn’t believe the sheer absurdity of the whole fucking conversation, not to mention the image of Paul standing there, in front of one of his old school teachers, politely asking how to properly arse fuck. Christ.

After he recovered from his snorting fit, John changed his tone and asked sternly, “Paul, exactly which mate did ya tell him the poor poof was? You didn’t say a fuckin’ word about…” 

I told ‘im it was Ivan.” Paul said, both cocky and flirtatious, in a way only Paul could do — a bright sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes — a wicked twinkle that John found simply, utterly fuckable. 

That day some three months ago, Paul’s former English teacher at the Institute, Mr. Chaplain, saw right through the beautiful boy’s little bullshit cover story. Paul was a terrible actor.

McCartney had always been one of Chaplain’s most favorite students, though – a smart lad that did good work, helped around the class, and kept out of trouble. However, Chaplain had always known that Paul and that older, musician friend of his from the art college fancied each other. He saw the looks, the lingering pats. Then he once spotted them stealing a quick kiss behind the building when they thought no one could see them. 

Despite his reservations about that Lennon boy, Chaplain empathized with the confused seventeen year old McCartney standing restlessly there in front of him, and he certainly understood what Paul needed to know and why. Chaplain also explained the very real dangers of kissing or holding hands with a boyfriend in public, even when you think no one is looking. When he was a younger man, Chaplain had learned that lesson the hard way. So had Brian. 

Remarkably, Chaplain kept the entire, awkward conversation with the anxious teenager and former student completely secret, even after Paul McCartney was famous beyond compare. Paul’s teacher died in ’76; he had never gone to the press, or told anyone for that matter. During all those crazy years, Epstein never paid him one single pound to keep his mouth shut. Donald Chaplain was a rare, decent sort of man.

“So, um…where we goin’ then to perform the main attraction of the evening?” Fidgety, John tried to settle his anxious anticipation with his usual silliness, while Paul started up the van and turned down the road.

Paul just rolled his eyes with a smile. “Dunno, really. Some place private.”

 

~~~~~

 

As he drove down the unfamiliar, dark streets of Inverness, Paul was focused, prepared, and horny as hell… again. Christ, he had been thinking about doing this with John for months, driving himself practically balmy with delicious, lurid fantasies. Most of the time his lusty daydreams involved the bath, warm soapy water, and John sitting on his lap. Or him sitting on John’s lap. Didn’t matter. Both scenarios got the randy lad off quite nicely in the privacy of his Forthlin bedroom.

Paul drove the van towards the direction of the river that ran through the city, hoping to find a park or some other secluded spot that might be deserted at night. A short while later, he turned the van down a dark, tree-lined paved road that seemed promising.

“Where the ‘ell is this, Paul? Fuckin’ spooky.” John's voice was fervent and tense.

“Dunno…some castle or other said back there on the sign. They got a lot of ‘em here up in Scotland. Castles, ya know. Hey… looks pretty good over there, luv.”

Putting his glasses back on, John finally saw the empty car park up the road, isolated by a green wall of trees and dense shrubs. It was hidden away, especially under the cover of darness. Only one lamppost was working. They had apparently driven very close to the river; the air smelled like wet pavement and freshly mowed grass. It was completely deserted — of mortals, anyway.

“Let’s stop over there by that light post, Paul.” Paul slowed to a stop in the middle of the car park.

“No, John, over ‘ere by this corner. It’s darker over ‘ere, more private.”

“Listen, Paul. Don’t ya think we should probably be able to at least fuckin’ see what the ‘ell we’re doing. Don’t want you stickin’ your sweet prick into any old hole, now do I?”

“Um, exactly how many holes do you ‘ave, John?” Paul teased with a wink.

“Fuck you.”

“No, John… “ Paul pointed at him playfully with a sinful grin. “I’m gonna fuck you. Know why? Cause I’m the only one ‘ere who right well knows exactly how to stick his cock up another bloke’s arse.” The younger boy’s sexy confidence drove John mad with lust, his hard on now painfully straining against his trousers.

“So you’re saying that I should be the pillow biter that takes it up the arse, are you?  Convince me, Paul”

 _“Shit, here comes more Lennon bullshit. For a musician, you’ve got lousy fuckin timin’, John. ”_

Paul had no idea that John’s antics were due to extreme nerves. Seventeen year old Paul didn’t yet recognize all of the subtle early signs, since he had never seen John during one of his panics, those terrible, sickening minutes that would later haunt John right before a show throughout the touring years.

“Why? Well — cause your prick’s bigger than mine. Thought I’d go first, get the ball rollin’ and all.”

“Delighted ya noticed, but no. Not enough to get me on me belly, Paul.”

“Christ. Ok, how ‘bout cause I’ve got the lubricant shit we need, John.”

“Ah! Always prepared, you sexy scout. Sounds important, luv, but still not convinced.”

Paul thought for a few seconds before he spoke.

 _“What the fuck does he want to hear?”_

“Cause the bloke taking it up his arse comes his brains out a thousand times more than the other bloke.”

“Really? Hmm, yeah, alright then.”

Paul shook his head, relieved that he’d passed another test, and parked the van under the lamppost. John did have a point about being able to see.

“So, how do you wanna to do this?” John asked casually in a nonchalant tone, as he opened his trousers.

“John, stop.” Paul ordered with an exasperated sigh. “I want ya to just shut the 'ell up, slide over ‘ere and bloody kiss me!” John could be such an infuriating pain in the ass sometimes.

Just a few moments into a deep, wet snog, their hands tangled in each other's hair, John pulled back. “Cor, nearly forgot about it!”

He smiled at Paul’s puzzled face as he bent down to reach for something underneath the front bench.

“Lifted it from some poor wanker in the chip shop. Thought this might come in handy.”

John held up a bottle of whiskey, took the top off, swallowed a huge swig and passed the stolen loot over to an amused but sober Paul.

But Paul didn’t want to get pissed. Paul wanted to fuck and get fucked. And in order for him to get fucked well, John couldn’t get pissed — well, not really pissed, anyway. After they each took two more hefty gulps, Paul quickly hid the bottle down next to the driver’s door.

Soon they were both entangled in a ravenous kiss on the front bench of the old van, hands hungrily caressing and grabbing, mouths moaning. For two teens starving for a passionate shag, with no money, in a strange city, living in a room full of farting tossers, these stolen moments were utter feasts. Course they would be for any two teenage lovers enjoying a secret tryst in a van at night.

In this car park, in the heart of Inverness, Scotland, in May of 1960, the loving, sensuous moments between these two boys were also seriously illegal.

 

 

“What was that?” Paul looked up out the windscreen, his dark hair a tousled mess, his eyes heavy with lust, his lips already slightly swollen and moist.

“Huh?” John asked, as he tried to catch his breath.

“Something moved. Well, more like walked I s’ppose — in the trees down by the river over there.”

“You’ve seen one too many Scottish phantoms for one day, luv.” John cooed into Paul’s neck. “Now pay attention to my legendary Scouser prick, will ya?”

Paul snaked his warm hand down under the leather of John’s open trousers, while he softly bit John’s earlobe and twisted a curly lock of maple brown hair. The older boy simply let his head fall back against the bench seat, his eyes closed and lips parted. The light from the lamppost lit the front bench of the van like a muted spotlight.

“John, luv, take yer trousers off now.” Paul demanded seductively, as he pushed his leather jacket off his shoulders. Within seconds they were both stripped from the waist down, T-shirts already damp and musky. Always one to pay attention to the details of a school lesson, Paul trailed two lubed fingers up the crack of John’s bum as he slid John’s cock between his full lips. John caught his breath, his mind spinning helplessly.

After several delicious minutes of sucking and touching, Paul pushed John back down on the bench seat and murmured, “I’m gonna finger fuck you first, luv.”

“Oh my, a finger pie…” John softly sang in delirium, eyes still shut. One, then two fingers, sliding in and out slowly, twisting and exploring… discovering, all the while Paul’s mouth wrapped around John’s aching cock. When Paul’s fingers curled and caressed deep, John arched his back, grabbed onto Paul’s shoulders and groaned ecstatic profanities.

“You alright, darlin’? Shit, I'm not hurtin' ya, am I?”

“No, no, no. Bloody perfect.” John exhaled between delirious, shallow breaths, “Shit — just fuck me — please, Paul.”

“Here, get up then.  Face forward and sit over me lap.” Paul knew what he wanted. It wasn’t a warm soapy bath, but it would do.

Once John maneuvered himself into position, he realized his body was nearly pinned between Paul’s warmth and the front dashboard of the van.

“If you put me head through that fuckin’ windscreen, I’m gonna pummel the shit out of ya, McCartney!”

“Shh…” Paul slid John's shirt up over his back and lightly kissed his broad shoulder blades, determined not to let John get distracted again with some bullshit banter. Paul toyed with him with his fingers a bit longer while he groped around to find the tube of lube again.

“Shit, where’d it go?”

“Lose something back there, did ya?” John gasped with a chuckle.

“Can’t find that stuff. Can’t see — shit, you’re blocking the bloody light, John.”

“You're the one who told me to fuckin squat up 'ere like this, ya arsehole!” John snapped with a muffled laugh. Paul found the tube on the front bench.

“Speaking of...” Quickly lubed up, Paul slowly guided his throbbing cock into John’s extremely hot, extremely tight ass, inch by inch, as he gently pulled John back down and on top of his lap. Paul would later learn that his lover really preferred to start with one hard, steady, deep thrust. Once he was buried to the hilt, with John’s lower back pressed against his stomach, John’s hands braced against the dash, Paul whispered, “Stay still for a bit, ok? Just relax and breathe, luv. Ya have to loosen up and relax for this to be really good, alright, darlin'?”

John silently obeyed, leaned back and rested his head on Paul’s right shoulder. They sat there breathing deeply and slowly in rhythm together, John softly moaning, his eyes closed, while Paul ran one hand over John's chest, another through his hair. Paul’s cock soon twitched inside John with hunger and ache.

“I’m gonna move now, ok?” John barely nodded, sighing something like, “Yeah.”

His hands gripping John’s hipbones, Paul rocked slowly at first. Soon his own desire took control over his rational brain. He thrusted harder and faster while low, raspy groans and obscenities filled the air in the front of the van.

“Christ — fuckin’ — touch....” John had reached babbling incoherence.

Paul wrapped his two hands around John's shaft, stroking and squeezing, while his own prick impaled John's shivering body. John came first, crying out, falling back against Paul’s sweaty chest. Paul’s fingers, slick with lube and John’s warm cum, traced wet patterns on his boyfriend’s trembling stomach as Paul finally let himself completely lose control. He screamed curses as he emptied in John's tightness, biting into John’s left shoulder, hard.

 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell."  John winced and began to laugh softly.

“Yeah.” Paul practically whimpered, his lips pressed against the slick, sweat-soaked skin of John's shoulder, kissing the bruising bite mark tenderly.

"Hmm, Johnny, that was — amazing." Paul continued to hum against John's skin in bliss, finally whispering, "I’m gonna pull out now.”

“No. You’re — still hard. Stay.” John demanded, slowly regaining coherence.

“Ordering me around then are you?" Paul chuckled, as he drove one last hard thrust deep into John’s quivering spent body. "Don’t forget who has the upper prick ‘ere.”

"Fucker," John gasped.

After some smokes and more whiskey, John slowly turned to Paul, grabbed his faced in his hand and growled,

“Time for act two, darlin.’ Hand over the lube and get your sweet arse in the back of the fuckin’ van.”

Over in the shadows of the trees, with a perfect view of the entire show, the old bearded man just shook his head in disbelief. “Randy lads,” he muttered. Ghostly pale and dressed in his full regal attire, King Duncan turned away and walked toward the river.

***********************************************

 **1962**

On that warm June morning, having returned from her quick trip to get more chocolate biscuits, Cyn easily sensed the thick tension that hung in the air of her one room sit. John and Paul were seated at the small table, smoking and finishing their second cup of tea. She thought it odd how they weren’t even looking at each other like they normally did. They were silent and distant.

“We’re off, then! C'mon Paul.” John suddenly declared as he stood up quickly, raked his hair and turned for the exit.

“When will you be home, John?”

“Dunno. Later.” He brusquely pushed by her, forgetting to kiss her goodbye.

At midday, the two band mates and broken lovers were walking along a Liverpool street, completely quiet except for the sounds of smoking, looking anywhere but at each other.

Paul finally broke the uncomfortable stillness.

“John, I’m sorry. I was fuckin' wrong, alright.” Distracted by his own tortured mind, John said nothing.

Paul stopped and tried to look into John’s eyes. “We don’t have to choose, luv. We can work it out. I’ll figure something out — somehow, ok?” Paul was now pleading for forgiveness with his entire beautiful face.

 _"Christ, I can't lose him,"_ Paul tore apart inside.

John didn’t acknowledge the tender words that Paul had just courageously spoken. He didn’t notice the desperation in Paul’s eyes. A few more silent steps and John stopped, turned back, and looked deep into Paul’s apologetic, loving gaze.

John’s own eyes were soaked wet with tears, his voice raw and shaky. “Cyn’s pregnant, Paul.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**1962**   
  


“Bloody — ‘ell, John.” Paul barely choked the words out of his mouth between the suffocating sobs that gripped his chest, as the two stood in the middle of a Liverpool sidewalk that was starting to fill with people headed home for lunch.  
  
A crowded bus pulled up to the stop on the corner. Nearly a dozen more commuters filed out the exit doors into the growing congestion.  
  
“What the fuck am I gonna do, Paul?”  
  
Paul took a long, deep breath. “Not much ya can do. You’re gonna marry Cyn, right?  Have to.”  
  
The last bit trailed off Paul’s tongue as a shaky whisper while he turned to wipe the wetness from his eyes. He remembered well when he had been stuck like this with Dot. Marriage was the only option for most regular blokes in Liverpool in 1962. Unless the bird lost the thing, like Dot did.  
  
John looked away, rubbing his own eyes with his fingers as if they were just tired instead of soaked to the brim with tears. “Shit… s’ppose so.”  
  
“Listen, luv, let's get the fuck outta here — go someplace where we can actually talk,” Paul suggested urgently, as the street bristled with faceless pedestrians, some staring at the two young men as they rushed passed them.  
  
John sighed, “Yeah.” Then he said quietly, almost in surrender, “I know a place.”  
  
The two made their way out to the suburb of Woolton, in the direction of Mimi’s house, though why the fuck they were going out there Paul had no clue. Not exactly private, since the cranky old bint was at the house most days usually. And if by some miracle she wasn’t, one of her nosy boarders would be hanging around no doubt. Paul became even more confused when John didn’t go straight to Mimi’s but instead led him round to the back entrance of some run-down estate property just a couple of blocks away from the Menlove home.  
  
“Wait! Isn’t this that old Strawberry Field orphanage place? What the ‘ell are we doin' here, John?”  
  
“Gotta private spot over there, way back in the trees.” John pointed as he scaled the stone wall. “Have had it ever since me and Shotton started hoppin' this gate to nick shit from their summer garden parties back when we were lads.”  
  
John paused and ran his fingers through his hair. “Nobody’s found it yet, s’far as I know. They don’t allow the orphan kids to go explore in the woods, those selfish fuckers. And the staff are lazy sods that don’t leave the house, so they’ll never ‘appen on it.” John darted his eyes around the grounds, possessively surveying the woods of his hidden realm.  
  
“We made a club spot of sorts, ya know — where me and Pete and Nigel and the others could just shit about, smoke, stash drink and have giggles over titty magazines.”  
  
“Aw, wee Johnny and Petey made a fort.”  Paul laughed sweetly as he raised his arched brows, his head still pounding from all of the tension and the welled-up tears.  
  
“It’s not a fuckin’ kids’ fort, ya cunt!  It’s for smokes and booze, for thinkin’ and writing.  It’s for me, goddammit — to get the fuck away from Mimi, from Cyn. Christ, even from  _you_ sometimes.”  
  
“Okay, okay.  Ya sure you wanna show me this though? Sounds, I dunno — kinda personal.”  
  
John smiled half-heartedly with noticeable strain. “I’d say we’re about as personal as it can possibly fuckin’ get, Paul. Just c’mon and hop over, alright.”  
  
Paul was always breaking the rules when he was around John, without so much as a question most times. No wonder that Paul’s obvious devotion to that Lennon boy made Jim nervous for his older son’s uncertain future.  
  
The two boys snaked their way through the trees and thick, overgrown brush, Paul following John’s lead. Apparently the underfunded charity couldn’t afford to hire gardeners to tend the extensive grounds. It seemed like no one had ventured through these woods in ages. Paul was quite surprised at the physical effort it took just to get to this hidden clubhouse thing; he didn’t expect John to expend this much energy for anything, other than playing music and fucking. As he pushed his way through the tangled branches, he wondered if John also used this teenage hideout to shag the occasional easy bird on the side.  
  
When they finally got to the place, Paul couldn’t believe his eyes. You couldn’t even see the camouflaged dugout until you were right on top of it. It was like a cave, sort of, with walls and a curved roof, made out of branches and leaves and other random forest shit. It was a hidden shrine, a sacred grotto for celebrating adolescent misbehavior and immature fantasies. It was the perfect hidden spot to figure out how to fix the mess he’d made. To figure it all out with John.  
  
“Cor, did you build this, luv?”  
  
“Me? Christ, no. Ya kidding?  I made Pete and Nigel build it.   I directed.”  
  
“Figures.”  
  
“Lemme see if that stash is still ‘ere. Should ‘ave some bottle of something and smokes still stuffed away in that box,” John explained as he dug around in the back of the teenage bunker. Paul watched, his lips parted in a smile of amazement; John usually did that to him. A short while later and the two were settled in with half a liquor bottle, a pack of cigarettes, and almost an entire bar of chocolate that was also buried in the metal container, along with a writing notebook and pencils. The sky had clouded over but the June air was still heavy with heat and moisture.  
  
“So whatta we do now, John?” Paul asked as he passed the bottle back to his best mate, seated down next to him on the ground inside the hideout.  
  
“Huh?  Well, s’ppose I gotta get fuckin’ married soon. Shit, Paul, I’m too young to get castrated.”  
  
“No, I mean about us, luv.”  
  
“Pardon? What us? There’s no  _us_  anymore, Paul.” John exhaled deeply. “You broke it off, ya twat.  You ended it, Paul!  At that shithole pub, remember?”  
  
“Didn’t hear a word I said back there, did ya, John?” Paul voice cracked as he stared into John’s eyes with disbelief and longing. “I said that I was wrong. I’m fuckin’  _wrong_ , ok! Christ, I bloody apologized, luv.  Didn’t ya hear any of it?”  He tried to grab a hold of John’s hand but the older boy pulled it away.  
  
John turned away and took a drag off his smoke. “Ya weren’t wrong Paul. You never are, ya know.”  
  
He hesitated and then John spoke again, more slowly and deliberately. “It is a fuckin’ choice; you made that clear to me that night. We can either have shitloads of quid and big houses and all that useless crap, doing what we want, traveling all over, playing as a band together… or we can be two sad old queers stuck in Liverpool working regular shit jobs or living off the dole. Not much of a fuckin’ choice, if ya ask me.”  
  
“No!”  Paul said too forcefully. He quickly brought his voice back down to a low murmur.  
  
“What I mean is — we can manage things the way they are, yeah?  We’ve done pretty good so far, keepin’ it quiet and private and everything. We know the tricks.  No reason we can’t continue on like this, John — keep the band together — and keep us together. Just have to be more careful, with outsiders and with the newspapers. That’s all.”  
  
Paul argued his case passionately, while aching somewhere deep inside.  
  
 _“Except that Epstein and George for sure already know. And fuckin’ dead Stu knew too.”_  
  
************************  
  
 **1961**  
  
It was the middle of another cold, dreary March in Liverpool. The day before, they had played two shows, one good gig at lunch and a wretched excuse for a show last night. The band had today off, a rare quiet Saturday, free to catch up on lost sleep and fuck around doing nothing important. It was early in the morning…too early for John to be opening his drowsy eyes as he lay buried underneath the bed covers on the pile of nasty shit he called a bed. Something had made a loud noise out in the main room of the Gambier flat, though not loud enough to disturb the warm, snoozing lump that lay curled up cozy at John’s side.  
  
 _“Who the fuck is that?”_  The twenty year old growled silently as he slipped out from underneath the covers, grabbed his glasses off the floor, and headed out of his bedroom.  
  
“Morning, luv.”  
  
“Why the fuck’s sake are you ‘ere so bloody early, Stu? Thought you were beddin’ that freckled bird from last night over at her friend’s flat.”  
  
“Was. Did. But now I have, alas, a Saturday class!” Stu exclaimed with a flourish. “Ya remember — school, John? Needed to fetch me supplies and shit. Sorry if I woke ya, darlin’.” Stu winked flirtatiously, as he threw his paint brushes into his bag.  
  
The older art student was dangerously talented and undeniably handsome, though short and spry in a delicate, sort of birdish way. Stu Sutcliffe was a fascinating mess of contradictions and ambitions; John still hadn’t figured him out… not completely anyway. John fancied puzzles, and his mate Stuart was one giant fucking enigma. Acted and dressed like an artsy poof, painted as well as bleedin’ Picasso — sometimes a fake teddy boy that read German philosophy, sometimes a whore that fucked pussy like a crazed alley cat. Unfortunately, for all his talents, Stu still couldn’t play the bass for shit.  
  
“Want a cuppa, John? Got a bit of time before I gotta head off.”  
  
“Sure, why the fuck not, Stu — seeing as how I’m bloody awake at — shit, seven in the fuckin’ morning!” John whispered angrily.  
  
“Early bird gets the worm, John!” Stu shrugged and chuckled. “Speakin’ of worms, McCartney ‘ere?”  
  
“Kippin’ still. So keep the noise down, will ya.”  
  
“Fucked him unconscious again, did ya?”  
  
John stared at Stu, slapping him hard with a lethal glare that demanded an apology.  
  
“Sorry, John.  Out of line — again.”  Stu held his palms up apologetically.  
  
Stu had known that John fancied birds and blokes from the minute he met him at that coffee shop near the art college. Was no big deal – a few of his mates at the college went both ways. It took Stu a bit longer to realize, despite the girlfriend hanging off his arm much of the time, that John had long ago fallen madly in love with his younger mate, Paul. The two musicians hid it well, most of the time. Got a bit sloppy about it when they were pissed, Stu noticed.  
  
No surprise though that Lennon was fucking furious when Stu stupidly brought that up one night over beers at the flat. Punched Stu twice in the face, though not as hard as John could have. Or as hard as John had wanted to. Holding his hand up to his bruised cheek that evening, Stu swore that nobody had told him, that he had just figured it out, that’s all. Stu also swore that he wouldn’t say a word about them, about their secret, even if it might amuse some attractive skirt he was chasing. John believed him. Stu kept his word, sort of.  
  
Like most of their mates, Stu worshipped reckless, brilliant John fucking Lennon and hated upsetting or disappointing him. For his part, despite his affection for the bloke, John teased and harassed the aspiring painter mercilessly, mostly to make sure Stu knew his place and stayed in line. Stu was a great mate and a fascinating bloke. But Paul was John’s life, his music, his future. John might have been distracted much of the time, but he was never confused about that. So John viciously hounded poor Stu, day after day, show after show, in order to protect the band, in order to protect Paul.  
  
“Everything good between you and Paul?” It was idiotic to continue the conversation, he knew that, but Stu was uncontrollably fascinated by the intense partnership that John and Paul shared. It was the artist in him, drawn like a moth to understand their perilous love. He wanted to try and paint that passionate energy some day, capture it on canvas.  
  
“Yeah, fine. Why?” John answered, suspicious.  
  
“Just wondering. Paul’s playing seemed a bit off last night.”  
  
“How the fuck would you know proper guitar playing, Stuart, luv?” John chuckled sarcastically, trying not to make too much noise. “Paul’s playin’ was fine. It was me — couldn’t get the bloody chords right or something.”  
  
“Good. I’m glad things are good, then.”  
  
“Why the fuck are we talkin’ about this, Stu?”  
  
Stuart was quiet for a moment before he spoke.  
  
“He’s good for you, ya know that, John? You’re happier — calmer — you’re just fuckin’  _better_ when he’s with you. Still don’t care much for the little arrogant prick but that’s me own problem, isn’t it.” Stuart paused for another few seconds, wanting to get his words just right.  
  
“It’s just that Paul suits you.   And, well — that’s important to me, John.  It’s important to me that you’re good. ‘Sides, I’m still your bestest straight mate, aren’t I, luv?” Stu batted his lashes with exaggeration as he wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders.  
  
“I haven’t exactly decided how straight you really are, Stu.” John winked back.  
  
“Ha! Like to keep ya guessing, on yer toes and all! I’m off!  See ya tonight for pints and skirts at Ye Cracke?”  
  
“S’ppose. I’m goin' the fuck back to bed. It’s too bleedin’ early.”  
  
“Have fun on yer day off!  And, John — don’t fuck things up with Paul, alright, luv?” Stu tossed out curtly as he made for the door, art bag slung over his shoulder.  
  
“Oh, and Johnny. Give pretty Paul a kiss for us.” Stu made a sloppy snoggin’ noise as he shut the flat door behind him.  
  
 _“Shit, yer damn lucky pretty Paul doesn’t know that you figured it out, Stu. He’d bloody bash yer face in better than I ever would, or could.”_  
  
John left the milk bottle out on the table, scratched his balls and went back to his bedroom. He quietly crawled back under the warm covers and spooned Paul from behind, wrapping his arm around his naked waist, nuzzling his nose into his thick hair, inhaling the familiar scent of Paul.  
  
“What was that?” Paul mumbled with his eyes still closed, barely awake.  
  
“Fuckin’ Sutcliffe.” John grumbled in his ear.  
  
“Wanker.”  
  
They both easily drifted back to sleep, snuggled together under the blankets in the dim light of the lazy winter morning.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**1961**   
  


They were a shit more than half drunk already, arms draped lazily around each other, laughing too loudly in the smoky Liverpool pub. The cheap drinking hole was packed with disgruntled young office workers, a few rowdy shipyard blokes and noisy, leather-clad musicians. Empty pint glasses were strewn about the tables between overflowing ashtrays.  
  
“The bleedin’ Nasties fuckin’ love us, son!”  
  
“Das Beatles return — to der Reeeper — BAHN, mein Herr!”  
  
With a second contract to play the clubs in Hamburg, the two boys were in high spirits. Earlier that day they had snuggled warm under the covers of John’s crappy bed at the Gambier flat; they had slept and snogged and fucked away most of their day off. Paul’s dad had no idea where his son was, and right now Paul didn’t really give a shit. He’d probably pay for it later somehow, but tonight Paul was where he needed to be, celebrating the chance to play for wages far away from home and be with John. And they weren't at the Cracke with Stu and the other fucking pompous art college arseholes. This pub was a musician’s haunt.    
  
Fuck you, Sutcliffe.  
  
Across the table from the two pissed rockers, an entertained Ringo slowly blew out a ring of smoke with a smirk and a lift of an eyebrow. He noticed that Lennon had that wicked glint in his eyes and McCartney was already slurring his words. Could be an interesting night.  
  
“Yeah, we’re 'eaded back to Hamburg too.”  
  
“Yer band’s fuckin’ bleedin’ awful, Starkey! Those fuckers can’t play a guitar to spare their worthless arses. And that wanker Storm is a right arse, a fuckin’ shitty singer, ya know? Yer too damn good for ‘em, Richard, ya prick!”  
  
Whatever the fuck was actually wrong with John Lennon, it amused the bloody hell out of Ringo. The older drummer could listen to John’s profanity-packed maniacal shit all night long. As long as he had enough booze and smokes.  
  
“Ta, Johnny.” Ringo chuckled, as he lifted up his pint.  
  
Ringo took another healthy gulp and scratched his short beard. He delighted in the Lennon boy’s clever wit, irreverent guitar playing, and absurd stories, but John’s puffed-up bullshit belligerence didn’t scare the drummer one fucking bit.  
  
John lit a smoke.  
  
Ringo’s unimpressed, calm way about him was one of many unusual things that intrigued John about the funny, odd-looking, little bloke. Besides, Ringo was hands-down the best drummer in town. John wanted him; John usually got what he fucking wanted, for better or worse.  
  
Ringo lit another cigarette.  
  
After all, Ringo thought, Lennon was just a phony ted wannabe from the bleedin’ suburbs, for Christ’s sake. Always dressed in newer clean clothes, always with a couple of quid in his pocket, the spoiled kid had probably only seen real, armed teds stalking the streets of downtown, those criminals from Ringo’s old neighborhood, violent brutes that he’d gone to school with, when he wasn’t sick in the hospital.  
  
Hell, Ringo had witnessed deadly Liverpool gang brutality up close, right on the street in front of his mum’s house; tough boy John would have fucking shit in his trousers if the coddled Woolton lad had seen some the frightening crap that Ringo had lived through when he was younger.  
  
Richard Starkey was a true Scouser from the shittiest, poorest section of the rough port city – Ringo Starr was a real fucking survivor.  Soft spoken and naturally sensible most of the time, he commanded respect and admiration from his mates without demanding it or even needing it.  He was the perfect missing piece of the puzzle, Paul had decided.  
  
“Yeah, Ritch… when are you gonna quit those tossers and come drum with us?"  Paul cooed from underneath his dark locks, his sultry eyes heavy-lidded, flirtatious and quite drunk.  
  
“Why, you’ve never asked me, luv.” Pushing back a strand of his premature gray hair, the gentle drummer chuckled, charmed as always.  
  
A pissed, silly Paul McCartney certainly was captivating to watch. He had seen the boy perform on stage enough to appreciate Paul’s alluring charisma and goofy humor, now amped way up with too many pints. God, he could just sit back and drink in Paul’s crazy, beautiful antics all night. Until he ran out of drink.  
  
“We ‘aven’t asked ya to join the band, Ritchie?  Is that right?  What the fuck’s wrong with us, John?”  
  
Shit, Ringo observed, that boy was a bit too beautiful. Like every bird and bloke he knew, he had trouble not staring at Paul’s supple, moist mouth. That should be fucking illegal, Ringo snorted. Along with those fucking eyes. No wonder some of Ringo’s mates thought Paul was a bloody poof. As he took another drag, Ringo noticed the bassist lean into John’s shoulder more than he should have. And then he saw the John tilt his chair back, possessively pulling Paul just a bit closer.  
  
“He’s s’pposed to be able to read our fuckin’ minds, Macca. Rite of passage and all.”  
  
John paused and dropped his voice.  
  
“Leave the lousy ‘urricanes, Ritch! We’re the bloody band that’s gonna make it fuckin’ big.” The guitarist smiled sloppily and lifted his pint glass in cheers.  
  
“So when do you fellas leave?” Ringo tried to dodge yet another buggering from Lennon about his band. Mostly though he wondered how often he’d have a chance to watch the Beatles’ fanatic spectacles in Hamburg, in between his own tamer shows with the Hurricanes, of course. He had a contract, after all.  
  
“In a week or maybe two, I think. Right, John?”  
  
“I fuckin’ dunno.” John spit out the soggy words into Paul’s dark hair. Lennon was gettin’ fuckin’ pissed, fast.  
  
Ringo shook his head with a curl of his upper lip and a crooked smile, amazed at the arrogant confidence of these shitfaced guitarists. He’d seen them play their arses off at least two dozen times by now. Their raw talent, their undeniable chemistry never failed to impress the drummer, even when the drumming was fucking awful. Bloody daring destiny to notice them, John and Paul and that Harrison kid played untamed, ballsy rock and roll like no other band Ringo had ever seen, or had even heard on the radio if he really thought about it. Fuck, Liverpool’s best drummer would join their band in a minute if he could.  
  
Contact’s a contract, though. He was stuck with Storm and the Hurricanes’ routine gigs for now.  
  
He looked up from his pint to see them staring into each other’s blood-shot, pissed eyes. With a wicked grin, John winked leisurely at his younger band mate. Ringo shook his head again.  
  
 _“Besides, there’s those nasty rumors — spiteful chat among the other Liverpool bands that Lennon and McCartney are queer for each other.”_  
  
Ringo had always shrugged off the backstage gossip, but he certainly understood why it had started. Fuck. Just then, Paul’s head fell back against the pub wall behind his chair; John fell back limply with him, his gaze never leaving the intoxicating pull of Paul’s mischievous eyes. Yeah, they got a bit sloppy about things when they were really pissed. Stu was fucking right.  
  
“ _Bloody shame, though.”_  Ringo sighed silently.  
  
 _“Lennon’s band is finished if that shit’s true. Don’t care how brilliant they are. The gig promoters — Christ, the fans — folks would never put up with that.”_  
  
John reluctantly tore his eyes away from his bassist, lifted his arm off Paul’s shoulder and leaned across the table aggressively.  
  
“So, when do you leave then, Richard, luv for ‘amburg?”  
  
Now John’s words were starting to slur. His dark piercing gaze tried again in vain to intimidate Ringo’s sunken, fatigued blue eyes.  
  
“Bout the same time as you, I reckon, John.”  
  
“I’m fuckin’ serious, ya know that, right? ‘Bout you slaggin’ off, leavin’ that fuckin Rory Storm cunt.”  
  
John continued his inebriated growling, “I want ya to join me fuckin’ band, Richard!”  
  
The poisonous booze was starting to take hold of young Lennon. He might not be a real knife-wielding ted, but the suburban poser could be a real nasty fuck of a drunk.  
  
“Alright — I’ll think on it. Ta, John.”  
  
“Good! Do that, son! Cause if I ‘ave to listen to Pete fuckin’ Worst cock up one more fuckin’ song…” John shot out the angry words with a snarl.  
  
Even though he was shit pissed, Paul knew that he had to lighten the growing tension somehow.  
  
“S’alright, John.  Pete’ll get sacked soon.  It’ll be good.”  
  
It was Paul's unspoken responsibility to redirect John’s unpredictable energy, pints or no pints. It wasn’t his favorite part of their intimate pact, but he did so without complaint most times. McCartney enjoyed the control.  
  
At the same time, under the pub table, the randy lad slid his hungry fingers up John’ inner thigh and quickly fondled John’s balls. They may have fucked each other three times already that lazy winter day, but young Paul was always ready for more. And, besides, his touch always worked when John was this pissed. Within seconds, Paul’s velvet voice and light strokes had tamed the liquor demon that had started to devour his band mate.  
  
Ringo noticed Paul’s not so subtle but quick hand movements under the table surface. Paul was obviously much more pissed than John. Ringo looked away and sighed again.  
  
“So we’ll see ya in ‘amburg then, Ritch? Find some time to ‘ave laughs? Maybe play a bit? Talk ‘bout things?” Paul slurred in a languid, sensuous tone.  
  
“Count on it, Paul. Only eight days in a week, right?”  
  
Ringo had no idea what the fuck he had just said. Weird shit just slipped out of his mouth sometimes. John and Paul fell over each other in giggles at Ringo’s nonsense words. Paul spit out half a mouthful of beer on the table as he blurted, “Fuckin’ ‘ell — we love ya, Ritchie. Come play with us, yeah?”  
  
Ringo finished his pint and rose to leave. The older percussionist chuckled softly, rubbed his scruffy beard, and put on his wool cap. He was too tired and not nearly pissed enough to fool around any more with these two naughty Beatles tonight.  
  
As the drummer got up the leave, Paul smiled stupidly and nodded a goodbye. John, leaning heavily into Paul, pulled a spastic face and waved a two-finger salute at Ringo.  
  
 _“Crazy buggers.”_  Ringo thought with a hearty grin as he stepped out into the cold of the March night; he adjusted his hat, buttoned up his coat and lit up a smoke. Like nearly everyone, those two loons fascinated him, though he wasn’t quite sure exactly why yet, other than the music. Then he remembered again the cruel gossip muttered cowardly behind their backs.  
  
 _“Shit, that toothy guitar kid must be fuckin’ balmy to waste his talents, risk his career and all, what with those bloody rumors flying about. Bloody fuckin’ shame.”_  
  
Instead of heading straight home, Ringo decided to stop in at his favorite pub close to his flat. Maybe he'd find an easy bird to bed tonight.  
  
  
  
Back inside the pub, John’s nasty drunk had softened completely into slobbering silliness.  
  
“Hmm, luv — we gotta get — the funny — little drummer —Paul.”  
  
John rolled the muddled words out like pickled marshmallows into Paul’s warm ear, while his fingers traced the line of Paul’s hip under the table.  
  
“Yeah, you’re right, luv.  Don’t worry. We’ll get Starkey.” With his arms crossed in casual determination, Paul burped. He turned to John and flashed his foolish drunk wink.  
  
“I’ve gotta plan, ya know.”  
  



	10. Chapter 10

  
**1962**

 

Inside the humid hollow of his hidden cave fort, drops of sweat rolling down his back under his shirt, John stared expressionless at Paul’s tear-streaked face, searching his puffy red eyes for the truth. 

Or something, anything, that at least seemed like the truth. 

“ _That’s right, luv. Convince me. C’mon then. Convince me that it’ll be alright. Fuckin’ convince me, Paul.”_

The desperate sound loop played over and over in John’s mind. He couldn’t lose Paul. Not now, not when he was about to lose his fucking freedom to an accidental pregnancy. Shit, he couldn’t give up Paul too, not now. Maybe never. 

He gently brushed off a tear from Paul’s cheek with his thumb, his fingers cradling the boy’s chin. Shit… John had never seen Paul cry like this before, not even with a belly full of drink. He knew how fucking hard it was for sober Paul to just let go, lose control. While his heart ached at his tears, John was proud somehow that Paul felt safe here in his orphanage hideout, safe enough to show his weakness. 

He just needed Paul to stop fucking performing for a minute and simply be, for Christ’s sake!

“I dunno why I said that shit back in that ‘orrible pub the other night, John.” Paul started to sob more deeply, pulling his face from John’s fingers and turning away to look at the ground, toying mindlessly with a small stick. 

“I s’ppose I just panicked — dunno really. Me dad said something — something the other week. Got under me skin.”

Paul drew a deep breath. 

“And then when I saw that fanbird article and all those nosy personal questions, well — I guess I fuckin’ lost me head.” 

The last few words were mumbled and hard for John to hear as Paul tried to hold back another wrenching sob. John reached out his hand and tenderly lifted Paul’s face up to look at him. 

“What did yer dad say, luv?” 

Paul quickly blurted out the words without taking a breath.

“Said something ‘bout how our lives had turned out so different from what he and mum had dreamt it would be like when they got married. I dunno, somethin’ like that.” 

Paul didn’t mention that the tired widower had first thrown back a couple of drinks at the end of another long, grueling day at the job. Hard-working, old Jim was too exhausted that night to recognize that his idiotic words could seriously damage his sensitive son. 

The nineteen year old scooted out of the teenage shelter and stood up quickly, trying to shake off the crushing weight as he turned his back to the fort. Paul swallowed hard, then looked down and slightly back at John.

“He said that I turned out different, John — that I’m not the son me mum had wanted anymore.” 

John winced, his jaw clenched. 

“Yer dad was talkin’ ‘bout ya quittin’ school.  ‘Bout not ‘aving a proper shit job, Paul.  You know that.”

“Probably, yeah. It was just — just the way he was fuckin’ looking at me when he said it, that’s all.” 

Paul could barely speak. He chewed on his bottom lip, choked down another sob and closed his eyes. John couldn’t see the awful pain on the boy’s face now, but he could hear it, he could feel it. 

“He looked at me — with this disappointed, disgusted expression — that I’m not good enough for him, ya know. Never will be, s’ppose.” 

Paul stole another quick, deep breath. 

“Looked at me — shit, like he’s bloody ashamed of me, John — like he’s fuckin’  _humiliated._ ” 

Paul couldn’t hold on much longer; the words had started to completely wound and consume him. 

John inhaled deeply. He fought hard not to let his rage boil over. On top of all that visceral pain, he knew that Paul couldn’t carry the weight of a fuming Lennon outburst right now. 

But Jim McCartney’s holier than thou attitude, his blatant control over his son, bloody infuriated the fatherless rebel. John didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought of him, but he knew Paul cared. He knew that Paul, like most sons, yearned for his father’s approval and respect. John didn’t like it, but he accepted that it was just a part of who Paul was. And he fucking loved Paul, annoying, needy bits and all.

Fuck, John also secretly reckoned that the old man somehow knew about him and Paul. Had heard them. Christ, maybe he’d even seen them, touching or something. Paul privately suspected his dad knew too.

“I couldn’t stand it. I can’t fuckin’ take it if he’s gonna be fuckin’ ashamed of me, John!” 

The boy hugged himself, tried to hold on to control, but instead broke in two with gut-wrenching gasps of grief. 

Collected and surprisingly calm, John rose up behind the sobbing bassist and wrapped his arms around his injured, shuddering frame. The two boys said nothing, just stood there, rocking back and forth, alone in the shadows of the woods. John simply let Paul cry, comforting him in silence with light kisses to the moist skin of his shaking neck. As Paul’s sobs slowed down to deep, shivering breaths, he leaned back into John arms. 

“I love you, Paul.” 

John didn’t say it often. 

He selfishly held on to those perfect words, sharing them only when Paul needed to hear them most. When he needed to say them most. Had been that way ever since they had first said those words to each other in the bath, in Paris. 

Paul turned around, his dark eyes swollen, his lips shivering with a whisper. 

“Make love to me.”

John grabbed Paul’s face in both his hands and kissed his supple lips hard, caressing his mouth with his talented tongue, as if he alone had the power to snog away Paul’s anguish over his father’s thoughtless words and glances. While his mouth comforted and seduced, he worked his thumbs up to Paul’s aching temples, soothing them with gentle massaging circles. Paul groaned, his heart spinning with melancholy and serenity. 

John led Paul back inside the Strawberry Field hideout; the timber den was now bloody suffocating with oppressive humid heat, but it was safe. 

After he swallowed another mouthful of liquor, John stripped Paul bare, kissing and licking his soaked skin as his peeled his damp clothes off. 

Paul had surrendered to him; John understood what Paul craved. 

He let Paul close his eyes, let him escape the fucking agony of his father’s disapproval however he needed, as John wrapped his lips around Paul’s shaft and slowly aroused him with his wet mouth to a feverish hunger. John licked off two sinful salty drops, savoring the taste on his tongue. 

Shit, he hadn’t fucked Paul in days.

“Roll over for me, luv.” His voice was silky but demanding, as John pushed his zipper down and pulled out his thick, hungry cock. 

Silently obeying John’s order, Paul turned over and lifted his ass, eagerly offering up his naked, famished body. 

“I fuckin’ adore you.”

John whispered, as he ran his lips, his tongue, his hands, over every inch of Paul, from the back of his neck to his ankles. 

“Everything’s gonna be fine, Paul.”

He nibbled the soft firmness of Paul’s round bum, his fingers stroking and gently squeezing his balls, while he pressed his own throbbing cock against Paul’s calf. 

In the dim light of the forest fort, John gave Paul what had recently become his favorite discovery, their new guilty pleasure — a delightfully teasing rim job. With his gifted fingers and his hot tongue, John licked and caressed Paul until the beautiful boy squirmed uncontrollably beneath his mouth, grinding against the hard dirt floor, ecstatic and writhing and pleading. 

John rose back up on his knees, lubed himself up, spread and penetrated, lustfully watching himself breach Paul’s tightness and then plunge in slow and steady. Once he reached the sensitive depths of Paul’s quaking body, John rotated his hips in rhythmic thrusts, slowly bringing Paul closer and closer to the edge. 

Unhurried and deliberately tantalizing, John sucked hard on his neck, tickled Paul’s feet with his toes, pulled and twisted his wet hair, all the while growling urgent commands.

“Let go, luv. C’mon, baby!”

He felt Paul’s whole body climb little by little to an intense climax… then release with a violent shudder and melt. Paul let out a quivering groan that filled the heavy air of the hollow hideout.

“I — love — you,” Paul gasped, with a rawness that sounded almost apologetic, the side of his sweaty face pressed against the damp musty earth. His skin felt nasty and disgusting, coated with a sticky mess of cum, moisture and dirt, but he could barely move. He didn’t want to move. Fuck, he never wanted to leave John’s secret hovel in Strawberry Field. 

The auburn haired guitarist pulled out, rolled over on his back, wiped his prick off with his shirt, shoved the aching throbber back in his trousers, and pulled his zipper up with a gratified sigh.

“What are ya doing, luv? What about you?” Paul tried to catch his breath, his soaked brow knotted in confusion, as he pushed himself up on his elbows, naked and filthy and deliciously spent.

“The day’s still young. S’all ‘bout the stamina, son.” John winked, satisfied that Paul was now satiated and distracted. 

_“Sides, that one was just for you, Paul, luv,”_  He reminded himself with a generous smile. 

Paul chuckled, sighed and relaxed. He lowered himself back down, resting his grimy chin on his folded arms, and closed his heavy eyes in content fulfillment. 

Guzzling down another swallow of the cheap booze he had stashed in the fort, John leaned back and raked his damp hair with his fingers. He thirsty feline eyes devoured the sight of Paul’s pale, smooth skin, shiny and slick from the summer humidity and light trails of John’s saliva. He drank in the image of the ravished boy, lying there completely stripped, bare-assed on his dirty stomach, prepped for some good, hard pounding… 

John licked his firm, parched lips. Shit, he fucking ached to empty himself into that luscious, mouth-watering arse. Fuck. Later, Lennon… 

“Want some chocolate, Paul?” 

Paul laughed, shaking his soaked mess of hair as he rose up on one elbow. “Yeah, alright then.”

His eyes narrowed with delight, John popped a big bite of the chocolate bar into his mouth. He mumbled as he sucked on the treat slowly, relishing the sweetness.

“So — how we gonna make this work? You gotta plan — right, McCartney? You always ‘ave a plan, don’t ya?”

“Ta, luv.” 

Paul took the piece of chocolate from John’s outstretched fingers. 

“Might ‘ave an idea.” 

Paul paused to chew slowly. “I just dunno — bit daft, maybe.” 

Paul paused to swallow. “You wanna hear it?”

Exasperated, John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I fuckin’ wanna hear it, ya git!”

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**1962**   
  


Sucking on another morsel of chocolate, John half-heartedly tried to wipe off Paul’s skin with an old blanket retrieved from way in the back of the Strawberry Field fort; still covered in gritty filth, Paul grabbed the tattered cloth from John in frustration, and wound it around his stripped body. Even with the humid June heat, Paul had begun to shiver with goose bumps from the after tremors of his ball-blowing orgasm. The boy was covered in a mess of sticky grime; now he was also enveloped in a soiled bed cover, crunchy from years of teenage boys tossing off inside the hideout.  
  
“Christ, what the fuck is this nasty rag?”  
  
“An old wanking wipe, son.” John snorted softly, as he popped another bite of chocolate in his mouth.  
  
“Shit, really? Oh, that’s just bloody marvelous. I’m wrapped in Shotton’s crusty lad batter! Fuckin’ lovely, John!”  
  
With a tickled grin, John spoke low and smooth. “Tell us yer plan then, darlin’. Whatcha got in mind for making this work?”  
  
Paul’s appalled expression quickly turned serious and somber. He’d been thinking about this insane idea of his for a while now, as he lay in bed alone at night at Forthlin. He kept ending up deciding that it was too soft, too daft, to actually mention to John. Hell, nearly a week ago, he almost broke it off rather than dare to suggest this foolish scheme. But now he had no choice, no other option. Especially after that night in that shithole pub, Paul knew that he absolutely couldn’t leave John. But he also couldn’t abandon their dream to make money and earn a living as a real professional band, not when that goal seemed just within reach. They just needed a concrete plan to make both risks succeed, some fucking how.  
  
“Well, I’m thinkin’ that we can stay together, even if this recording contract means that we’re gonna get better known — with our songs on the radio maybe — having to do personal interviews and more promotion photos and shit.”  
  
Paul paused to run his fingers across the edge of the old blanket, avoiding what he wanted to say. “I guess that I figure — that we can just try to keep doing what we’ve been doing, John.” Paul shrugged in frustration, irritated with himself for stalling again.  
  
“That’s yer fuckin’ shit plan!” John took a deep breath.  
  
“Paul, luv. Look at us.” John lifted Paul’s face in his palm. “We’re hiding out like fuckin’ criminals — we’re makin’ love in a kids’ fort, for Christ’s sake. We’ve no bleedin’ idea what the fuck we’re doing!”  
  
“Yeah.” Paul paused again to nibble anxiously on his thumbnail. Here goes fucking everything…  
  
“That’s why I’ve been thinkin’ that we need a real solid plan, John.” Paul’s breath hitched and he felt lightheaded for a second.  
  
“We need some, I dunno — rules for staying together, for not fuckin’ it all up, ya know — while the band’s making it and we’re crammed together in rooms and dealin’ with all that nosy publicity shit. A list of rules for handlin’ all that crap when we’re playing in Hamburg, or working in London, or wherever.”  
  
Still cradling Paul’s face gently in his hand, John’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I fuckin’ hate rules. You know that, Paul.”  
  
“Alright then, not rules.” Paul rolled his eyes. “What I mean is somethin’ more like — a contract. Just between you and me. A private contract.”  
  
“Another fuckin’ contract!” John laughed sarcastically, shaking his head, his heart suddenly pierced by a stab of anxiety.  
  
John batted his lashes in silliness, just barely masking his unease. “Like a contract of the heart, darlin’?”  
  
“Yeah, sort of like that, but written down on paper and signed and all official and such. A real contract, ya know, like the ones we already signed with Epstein and with those London studio blokes.”  
  
Paul pulled back to stare deep into John’s wary eyes; the older boy immediately recognized that Paul was fucking dead serious.  
  
“Pardon? Shit, Paul. I fucked yer arse too bleedin’ hard, didn’t I? Must ‘ave rammed me prick into yer soft skull. You’ve gone completely nutters!”  
  
John laughed even harder and rubbed his face. Paul was a dazzling and delightfully gifted boy, but he could be an unpredictable, irrational shit when he really wanted something bad.  
  
John’s mocking antics cut Paul’s confidence off at the knees, but the bassist wouldn’t be dissuaded. It was the tenacious, bull-headed Irishman in him. McCartney had a lot of that fiercely stubborn blood coursing through his veins. It would serve him well down the road.  
  
“It’ll be an agreement, John — an understanding that’s written down. Something we can hold onto, in our hands. See with our eyes, touch with our fingers. A real contract on real paper that we write ourselves, just the two of us.”  
  
“Fuck. Are you proposing to me, McCartney?” John snickered, with a dose of bitterness and regret. “Better queue up behind Cyn, son. Christ, yer not preggars too, are ya, Paul?”  
  
“John, stop being an arsehole for one fuckin’ minute.” Paul ran his fingers through his dark, grubby locks.  
  
“I’m not talkin’ ‘bout marriage, alright?  ‘Sides, I suspect that you’ll be a right shitty husband, John.” Paul snorted nervously as he tightened the blanket around himself.  He shook his head and exhaled.  
  
“I’m thinking it’ll be a shared agreement, more like. Some promises to each other, John. Stuff written down that‘s important — that you and me agree matters, ya know, for us to be able to stay and be together.”  
  
Paul pulled in another deep breath before he finished.  
  
“I dunno, John. Let’s just call it our contract — a written down, confidential contract between two partners. Between us.” Paul exhaled.  
  
There.  
  
The gorgeous, near twenty year old had put his whole fucking beating heart on the chopping block and handed Lennon a butcher’s cleaver.  
  
Christ, he’d even said that daft bird word —  _promises —_ to John fucking Lennon. Shit.  
  
Paul cringed inside and waited breathlessly for the verbal lashing, or John’s hard fist.  
  
Much to Paul’s surprise, the older boy just leaned back against the fort wall and carefully thought about what his boyfriend had suggested. John slowly mulled it over in his mind, as he took a swig of booze, lit a smoke, and then lit another one for Paul. He wasn’t all that keen on Paul’s desperate contract idea. John knew that no document, not even one sealed by the bloody queen herself, would keep Paul bound to him, tied to their illegal, tumultuous love. John would lose him someday — he knew that. He had felt that brutal reality in his bones from their very first snog on that fuckin’ golf course.  
  
John never let himself forget that awful truth. He usually reminded himself, that some day Paul would leave him, when he was watching Paul sleep, all snug and fucked and happy beside him in bed, or in a van. Everyone left John in the end. And for all his bullshit pie-in-the-sky promises, Paul would leave him too. Contract or no contract, someday John would lose him. And then he’d be completely alone again, drowning his own mad, self-doubting brilliance. Just the way Paul had fucking found him, that day at the fete.  
  
Holding in the grief he was borrowing from the future, John turned to hand Paul his cigarette and caught the frantic, serious look on his beautiful face. Bloody ‘ell…  
  
“Shit, alright then. What kind of rules do ya suggest, Paul? Me promisin’ to going down on ya twice a day? That kinda thing?” John half-winked with a crooked sneer. Paul didn’t notice the single tear slide down John’s cheek.  
  
This contract game of Paul’s was fucking nonsense — pointless in fact. Potentially bloody dangerous, John suspected. But he played along, intrigued by Paul’s scheming mind. Paul was always just so fucking hopeful. For all his natural cynicism, the older guitarist was helplessly intoxicated by Paul’s relentless optimism.   Paul balanced him.  
  
“I dunno, luv.” The younger boy smiled with effort; hell, at least John was still listening. Paul’s voice softened to a near whisper.  
  
“We can think about it. Don’t have to decide everything at once. We’ll write stuff down as it we figure it out. You’ve got paper in that stash box of yours, don’t ya?”  
  
“For jotting down scribbles and song lyrics, not for composing fuckin’ binding love promises… ” John huffed, as he bent down and then handed Paul the writing notebook and a pencil. Paul flipped through the notebook to find a blank page, pausing here and there, fascinated by John’s nonsense words and insanely twisted drawings that already filled half of the sheets.  
  
“So, can ya think of something or other that we should put down ‘ere in our, um, contract, luv?” With the pencil stick pressed against his lower lip, Paul’s tensed muscles finally relaxed. He looked up at the auburn haired boy, his moist lips parted wide, a cheerful spark in Paul’s eyes.  
  
“Yeah, I can think of something.” John took another swig of liquor and a drag off his smoke.  
  
“I’m thinking that I’d better put me fuckin’ achin’ cock deep down yer beautiful throat before we even bloody think about this agreement or whatever it is, Paul, luv.”  
  
John reached over and grabbed Paul by his wet, disheveled hair, seductively snaking his tongue into Paul’s wet mouth. Paul tried to catch his breath, his lower body still weak and throbbing from the splendid arse fucking. His half spent smoke dropped to the damp floor.  
  
As he pulled back from the kiss to stare into the boy’s eyes, John grinned widely; Paul inhaled, relishing the flavors in his mouth — whiskey and cigarettes and chocolate.  
  
“So — if we do this — then yer me fiancé, Paul.” John chuckled.  
  
Without warning, John’s amused smile unexpectedly shifted to a hard and humorless stare. It was bloody worthless, fucking meaningless, John knew that, but he needed to say it to Paul anyway.  
  
“If we do this, if I sign some shit piece of paper — well, then yer fuckin’ mine, Paul. You  _belong_  to me, ya understand that, right?”  
  
With another rapid swing, John’s face softened to a gentle smirk. As he pulled Paul back for another deep snog, he growled, “Write that in our fuckin’ love pact!”  
  
The air in the hideout suddenly felt lighter and cooler. Paul muffled a loving whimper under John’s possessive kisses; John’s heart skipped at the taste of Paul’s joy on his lips, as he pulled the naked boy wrapped in the crusty blanket over his seated, fully clothed, fucking starving body. Paul moved down, unzipped his boyfriend’s trousers and wrapped his soft mouth around John’s pulsing cock. His tongue licked and danced in enchanting circles, teasing and stroking John closer to delirium. Then, with John’s fingers tangled in his hair, the beautiful boy looked up through his dark lashes, John’s thick prick held firmly between Paul’s full lips. Hypnotized by Paul’s mesmerizing gaze, John watched Paul fuck him with his luscious mouth; within minutes, he forcefully exploded down Paul’s throat with an excruciating gasp.  
  
 _“So much for fucking stamina, Lennon.”_  
  
After he chased John’s warm cum down with a swig of cheap whiskey, Paul licked his engorged lips and rested his cheek on John’s trembling thigh.  
  
Fuck, he needed a bath.  
  
“I gotta get this nasty shit off me, John. It’s driving me bleedin’ mad. Think anyone’s there at yer house?” Paul grumbled, as he scratched his stomach and tried to brush the sticky mess off of his thighs. John’s suburban home was just around the corner; he could clean up there if no one was around.  
  
“Reckon Mimi’s haunting — the front parlor with a cuppa — ‘bout this time of day.” John groaned between the intense aftershocks that surged like waves through his spent cock, slowly catching his breath.  
  
“Fuck! I need a bloody bath, John! Let’s head over to me house then. I can wash off and change me clothes there at least.”  
  
John snorted and raised his eyebrows in naughty delight, his eyes scanning over the naked boy’s filthy body. “You gonna put yer drainies on over that? And ride the bus to Forthlin covered in grit and man gravy?”  
  
“Got no choice, do I?”  
  
  
They made their way upstairs in the almost empty bus, picking seats they knew to be out of the view of the driver’s mirror. Generations of teenagers had passed along that precious information to one another, told their mates all the invisible places upstairs on empty city buses that kids could snog and smoke in covert bliss.  
  
“Shit, this is fuckin’ bloody awful.” Paul bellyached, frowning and dramatically rubbing his crotch. “I got dirt scratchin’ in between me balls.”  
  
“Paul, luv — pull yer trousers down, ok? I’ll stand up and rinse ya off with me piss!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Quit yer fuckin’ whinin’, for Christ’s sake!  We’ll be there soon, alright!  Then ya can change yer dirty nappie and wash off yer gorgeous, filthy jewels in the bath!” John put his arm across the back of the bus seat, leaned over, and kissed Paul’s flushed cheek.  
  
“C’mon, take yer mind off it, darlin’. Write something down or whatever.”  
  
Everything was gonna be fine, for now; he and Paul were good.  
  
With a frustrated scowl, Paul lit a cigarette and tried to occupy himself with a blank sheet of notebook paper. After he scratched his itchy crotch again and jotted down a few words with the pencil, Paul’s lips curved around his smoke in mischief. The skin on his face felt so fucking warm; he reckoned that John fiery eyes hadn’t stopped staring at him.  
  
“Ok. How ‘bout this, John? Our contract, um,  vow number one.” Paul leaned over closer and showed John the words scribbled down in Paul’s familiar handwriting.  
  
 _1\. No snogging other blokes, ever_  
  
************************************************************************  
  
 **1961**  
  
Cor, it was another fucking dull party at some dark and smoky anonymous flat in Hamburg. Blokes and birds, mostly spoiled university wankers, were costumed in flouncy clothes and heavy black-coal eyeliner. Shit, some of these tossers were even wearing fucking lipstick. Weirdly colored mixed drinks and tasteless snacks crowded the metal bistro tables that were arranged like a mock sidewalk café in the middle of the front room. Candlelight flickered off the deep red walls, while a scratchy jazz record played in the background.  
  
Paul still remembered Jürgen’s carnival gathering a couple of months ago; that had been sort of amusing. Art college buggers acting out German skits and prancing about like royal kraut tarts. But this party was McCartney’s third tedious extravaganza in a fortnight, and Paul was bored out of his goddamn fucking mind. He’d let John drag him to another one of these shit things only cause he wanted to fuck him tonight. Fuck him hard — shit, bend him over and take John like a cheap street boy in some dark Hamburg alley, again.  
  
Christ, they hadn’t had a chance to be alone together in almost a week. He’d been watching John sing and scream and drip with sweat within fucking inches of his hungry tongue for too many shows in a row now. Paul ached to smother John’s beautiful mouth with deep, stifling kisses. Without so much as a thought to the fact that he was standing in the middle of a crowded party, Paul stroked himself and readjusted his cock beneath the slick leather of his black trousers.  
  
Unfortunately, Paul had no inkling yet that Lennon was on a bender and planned to get bloody pissed off his arse. Stu’s extended disappearing acts to shag this Astrid bird were bloody infuriating. Sutcliffe was part of the fucking group, cute German snatch or not. John had fought to keep the useless cunt in the band, he had defended the little shit for Christ’s sake, despite Paul’s insistent nagging that they’d all be better off if Stu would just fucking quit and focus on his painting. Sutcliffe owed John everything, he owed him his first fucking born; he should be crawling across the floor on his goddamn knees, worshipping Lennon like the rest of them. Stu couldn’t take off after every show, skip out on Lennon’s raunchy teasing, not without his fucking permission.  
  
John needed some booze, a shitload of fuckin’ booze. Stu would be here, no doubt, frolicking about with the rest of these artsy poofs. Perfect fucking time and place to put his sad little arse back in line, here in front of his new German mates. With a sadistic sneer, John scanned the dark Hamburg flat through his thick lenses, searching for his wayward, talentless bassist.  
  
Rolling his eyes with a quick toss of his mop of curly brown hair, the lanky eighteen year old leaned his slim frame against the painted red wall of the front room and swallowed another mouthful of some odd drink concoction. Fuck, he needed more food and a fuck more sleep. It had been about a week since George had seen his best mate screw his bandleader in that Hamburg alley. Thank fucking hell they hadn’t seen him. George let the smoke from his cigarette roll out of his nostrils.  
  
So here George was, at a fucking exis party he’d rather have never known about. Shit, it had been McCartney’s brilliant idea to drag George along with him and John to this German freak show; now the young guitarist was stuck here in artsy bugger hell with the two of them – lusty Paul and his permanently stiff third leg — and of course Lennon, snarling and half-pissed and looking for a barmy. This was gonna be a fucking delightful party.  
  
If Harrison was lucky and there was a God, in a few minutes John would just pass out face first on the carpet, and then Paul could go over and fucking dry hump his drunk arse like a mongrel in heat.  
  
You know — get the festivities over with at an early hour and all!  
  
Shit. George took another gulp of the nasty kraut liquor.  
  
“Hello Beatles!!!” With an exaggerated wave, Jürgen shouted over the screeching jazz cacophony. Standing next to him was the little blonde photographer bird that Stuart was shagging at all fucking hours instead of showing up on time for their bloody gigs. Behind the shield of his glasses, John’s razor eyes zeroed in on the hapless pair like a pack wolf about to pick off two unsuspecting deer. He dropped his spent smoke, ground the embers into an oriental carpet with his cowboy boot, and strode with purpose towards the two smiling art students. Lennon was especially graceful when he was on the hunt and feeling lethal.  
  
“’ello, Jürgen.   Astrid.   Where’s Stu, luv?” John didn’t muck about when he was on a mission. While waiting for an answer, he drained his third full glass of some strong, bitter tasting liquor in one gulp.  
  
“I don’t know, John. He is here, ja.  He is perhaps in the washroom?”  
  
“Tell ‘im that I’m lookin’ for ‘im, alright darlin’?”  
  
Astrid nodded somewhat nervously. She wouldn’t normally show it if she could hide it, but John Lennon scared the fucking crap out of her. It didn’t help that the handsome, dangerous musician also got her panties soaked with just the slightest lingering gaze. She had wanted to bed him since the first time she saw the group play; she quickly discovered that night however that John had a steady girl back home. And there was, of course, beautiful Paul. Yeah, Lennon would fuck Astrid senseless — probably a few times if she wanted. But that was all, and Astrid was too proud to ever settle for second place. Not to some English girl.   Not even to Paul.  
  
“Well, ‘ello John, luv. Didn’t expect to see ya ‘ere!  Bloody great bash, isn’t it?” Stu put his frilly-sleeved, slender arm around his taller mate, tossing a wink at his pretty German girlfriend. He could feel that Lennon was wound up like a spring, his back muscles were rigid and tense.  
  
“We need to ‘ave a chat, Sutcliffe.”  
  
“Alright, luv. Let’s get ya another drink first. Ya need to loosen up, John.  It’s a bloody party after all!”  
  
From across the dark, smoke-filled red room, Paul stared at the two former flat mates as they headed towards a makeshift bar and its dozens of liquor bottles. Stu’s arm was around John; John was staring intently at Stu’s striking features. As much as he tried not to let it fucking happen, hitting himself hard on the side of his leg with his fist, Paul’s smoldering lust quickly hardened into stone cold jealousy. It was true that John no longer spent countless days away from Paul, cavorting around Liverpool with the short twat, but Stu’s protected status as John’s favorite bootlicking lap dog still drove Paul green-eyed and resentful.  
  
Frozen in place, Paul just stood there, helpless, and watched Stu flit his dainty little fingers across John’s broad back. He watched John relax and laugh at one of Sutcliffe’s stupid jokes. Their lips were just fucking inches apart as they smiled and talked and tossed back another drink. Two artsy blokes dancing together nearby accidently knocked a glass bottle to the floor. It smashed with a loud crash and a gaggle of laughs.  
  
“Stu, darlin’ — you’ve been fucking pissing me off, ya know that, right?” John growled into Stu’s face with a bitter smirk, draping his solid arms over the top of the painter’s slight shoulders.  
  
“John, luv — I’m sorry, I really am — but I’m quitting the band after this gig’s over, ok? Gonna go back to art school ‘ere in ‘amburg. Stay ‘ere with Astrid.”  
  
Smiling, John wrapped his strong right arm around Stu’s small frame, John’s fingers stroking Stu's bony shoulder, slowly digging like knives into his flesh. Paul’s heart was in his throat… he tried to look away, but he fucking couldn’t. Why the hell was John doing this… touching Stu like that? In front of everyone, for fuck’s sake… in front of Paul!  
  
“You’ll leave the group when I fuckin’ tell ya to leave, Stu — darlin’.” John snarled into Stu’s ear, his slurred words growing grittier.  
  
“John, McCartney’s right, ya know. Ya should listen to ‘im more often. I’m no bloody musician. I don’t belong in the band.  I’m  _leaving_ , John.”   Stu chuckled nervously, trying to lighten John’s mood as he playfully poked the taller musician lightly on the chest.  
  
Still wearing his false smile, John grasped Stu by the scruff of his fancy shirt collar and easily dragged him into a tiny, open bedroom behind the bar area. He shoved Stu up against the wall, his inebriated, narrow eyes burning holes through Stu’s astonished, confused expression. Stu had been punched in the face before; he squinted, held his breath and waited for the pain. John slowly lifted Stu’s chin with his middle finger while his other hand grabbed a fistful of his long hair.  
  
“This has nothing to do with Paul.”  
  
Without warning, John covered Stu’s mouth with his lips, forcing his tongue violently down his throat. The drunk musician snogged the frightened art student, until Stu thrashed in pain and fear, desperate for oxygen. Remarkably, he broke free from John’s tight grip with a loud gasp.  
  
“What the ‘ell, John!”  
  
Before he had much of a chance to catch his breath, Stu felt his face jerked back up, John’s leonine mouth quickly devouring him with brutal force. John was shit pissed and red hot furious; Stu had fucking betrayed him. He wanted to throttle the little deserter to a gory pulp, but he had decided at the bar that snogging him to near suffocation would be much more amusing and less messy.  
  
With Stu’s hands pinned behind his back, John smothered the boy’s mouth and nose, attacking him ferociously with his mouth, suffocating the frail lad. Stu’s muffled screams and flailing legs only fueled John’s drunk rage. When he felt Sutcliffe’s petite body go limp and start to lose consciousness from lack of air, John let go and stood back. John’s eyes were like daggers, his fists clenched at his sides, his thin lips swollen and bruised.  
  
The dazed painter choked for air, barely able to breathe.  
  
“I fucking quit, you crazy queer!”  
  
Then Stu felt the bone-shattering punch. Blood trickled down his lips and dripped off his chin, splattering on the wood floor. Stu sank down against the wall, collapsing into a heap on the floor of the room.  
  
“Now you’re out of me fuckin’ band, Sutcliffe!”  
  
From a distance and out of earshot, Paul had witnessed the whole thing like a dumb-struck voyeur. He had watched John… his John… passionately snog another bloke. He didn’t fucking care that John had also smashed Stu’s face in. All Paul saw with his crazed, jealous eyes was John feverously kiss and tongue fuck bloody Stu Sutcliffe!  
  
Paul was dizzy, his head spinning out of control from the debilitating blend of alcohol, pills, heartache and anger.  
  
“Well, at least Stu’s outta the fucking group now.” George dryly wisecracked in Paul’s ear, trying in vain to give his anguished mate a good chuckle. George squeezed Paul’s shoulder supportively but nothing helped. Paul’s face was knotted in gut-wrenching pain as he tried to hold back the tears; he couldn’t rip his eyes away from the scene that had just played out in front of him.  
  
“Bout bloody time, the cunt.” George wasn’t sure if Paul was talking about Stu or John. Paul finally looked away and rubbed his betrayed, trembling face. He had to get the fuck out of that stifling smoke, out of that deranged room, out of that fucking freakish flat. Now.  
  
From the corner of his view, John saw Paul’s rush out, slamming the steel door behind him. The bandleader closed his blood-shot eyes and sighed, swaying with too much drink, while a hysterical Astrid, screaming profanities in German, crouched down and delicately wiped off Stu’s tear-streaked, bloody face.  
  
 _“Well, that was fuckin’ lovelier than I even expected. Bloody marvelous, Lennon, you stupid prick!”_ George threw his lit cigarette to the ground, turned and hurried out the door after Paul.  
  
  
  
It was three hours later and nearly dawn before John finally found Paul, tuning a guitar, alone in the shadows of the run-down stage. The Top Ten club was closed at this hour and the only light in the cavernous room shone from a small desk lamp resting on the old battered piano.  
  
 _“Shit. Today’s his fuckin’ birthday.”_ John winced and rubbed his eyes, his body exhausted and drained by his own callous cruelty hours earlier. The prellies, the booze, the lack of sleep and decent food didn’t help either. He was fucking knackered.  
  
“Happy nineteenth, luv.” He said softly, from across the empty chairs that littered the club space.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“If that’s what ya wished for, though I did get ya another birthday pressie. It’s back in our hole of a room. I ‘aven’t wrapped it though…”  
  
“Bugger off, John! Just fuckin’ leave me alone, alright.”  
  
“Listen. I’m sorry, Paul. I was shit pissed — and I fucked up, ok?”  
  
Paul said nothing as he adjusted another guitar string.  
  
“We’re gonna need a bass player, luv. Stu’s not in the band anymore, ya know. I threw his fuckin’ worthless arse out.”  
  
“Yeah, heard about that. No, wait — I fucking  _watched_  it, didn’t I! Gave him one ‘ell of a send off from what I could see, John.”  
  
John crossed the room and climbed up on the empty stage. Shit, how many fuckin’ tunes had they already played on these old hollow pieces of worn wood? He made his way over to Paul, seated on a crate by the back wall, head bent down, focused on his task at hand.  
  
“Paul, I’m sorry. I was fuckin’ out of line — I shouldn’t ‘ave done that, I know.”  
  
“So exactly how many times ‘ave ya cheated on me, John? The truth would be a wonderful birthday pressie.”  
  
Exasperated, John sighed in frustration. Here we go again. Paul and his fucking self-defense instinct.  
  
“Cheated on ya, Paul? Shit, it’s gotta be dozens of times, darlin. Already fucked most of the decent birds in Liverpool, s’ppose. Don’t know how many exactly. Figure it’s less than you’ve poked, anyroad.”  
  
Paul glared at him with angry, poisonous eyes.  
  
“Oh!  With blokes, ya mean?   Never.    _Zero._   That exact enough a number for ya?” John exhaled.  “I didn’t kiss Stu, Paul. I thought that was bloody obvious! I suffocated the fucker to punish the little prick. Thought it’d be more entertaining, less bloody, than hospitalizing the useless twit.”  
  
“It wasn’t all that fuckin’  _entertaining_  for me though, was it, John?”  
  
“Paul, come to bed. We can catch a couple of hours of kip before the bleedin’ Reeperbahn wakes up again.” John was too bloody tired and hung over to fight with Paul. He only wanted to go back to his squalid cot, strip Paul down to his birthday suit, hold him, and whisper a million more sweet apologies into the warmth of his neck. He didn’t care if Pete or George were already asleep in the seedy Hamburg dive they called home; he’d kick their sorry arses out to the fucking street if Paul wanted.  
  
The dark haired boy suddenly stood and walked straight up to John, grabbing his chin in his hand.  
  
“That can’t ever ‘appen again, John. I won’t fuckin’ put up with being treated like yer two bit wallflower whore. I won’t put up with yer selfish goddamn disregard for my feelings!  Got it?”  
  
Paul gently lifted John’s chin a bit higher and stared deep into his blood-shot, green-brown eyes.  
  
“I will fuckin’ walk out on you if that ever ‘appens again — walk out on our goddamn band!   We ‘ave an understanding?”  
  
John didn’t fight back. He just slowly blinked his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah.”  
  
“Good.” As he lightly brushed John’s bruised mouth with his tired fingers, Paul sighed deeply. John pressed his forehead to Paul’s in fatigue. It had been another long, fuckin’ wild night in Hamburg.  
  
“So — where’s me pressie, Johnny?”

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**1962**   
  


After a few smokes and a couple of stolen kisses upstairs on the empty city bus, the two young musicians finally made their way to Paul’s home on Forthlin Road. John waited outside restlessly, arms crossed and tapping his toe, while Paul popped in to see who was home at the brick council house. After a few minutes had passed, Paul stepped back out the front door, still scratching his crotch.  
  
“Me dad’s ‘ere, but said he’d be headin’ off shortly. Wanna come in then?”  
  
“Well, seeing as how fond yer dad is of me, think I’ll just muck ‘bout round back til the coast is clear, luv.”  
  
John tossed his smoke and hopped a wall to make a short cut to the back garden. It wasn’t a fucking garden really, not like Mimi’s large tended grove at Mendips. It was a tiny, government-sanctioned, square plot of nothing. Old man Mac had grown a few sick looking weeds, but the sparse patch remained bloody depressing.  
  
“Enjoying a campin’ holiday on me property, Lennon?”  
  
Fuck.  
  
John had wanted to bloody avoid the old codger today. The guitarist was still simmering from learning of the pain that good old dad had brought on Paul. Sure, John had distracted the boy with delicious bum loving back at Strawberry Field, but the control the old man had over his son was still maddening. Made John thankful sometimes that he didn’t have a dad to fuck up his whirling thoughts. He didn’t need an overbearing, mind-fucking dad anyroad. John had Mimi.  
  
“Mr. McCartney, sir.” John had been trying the more polite approach with the grumpy widower lately. Didn’t seem to matter much, though.  
  
“Are ya loiterin’ in me garden, lad, or are ya comin’ in?” Jim gruffed. The devoted father had almost resigned himself to accept the fact that his eldest son was enthralled with the rebellious posture of this suburban art college dropout. Jim just hadn’t figured out yet what this wily Lennon scruff really wanted with his usually well-behaved Paul. There was the lads’ band, and their songs, of course. But Jim suspected something else was happening between the two other than just the music. He simply couldn’t put his finger on it.  
  
John begrudgingly followed Jim from the desolate garden through the back door to the small kitchen, where Paul had already started the kettle for tea. As he sat down in one of the unsteady chairs, John noticed that Paul was squirming just a tad in his close-fitting trousers, the skin-tight drainies that Jim fucking hated. And of course the old man blamed John for outfitting his son with that outrageous get up. Jim blamed John for most everything wrong with Paul these days.  
  
Ah — if old Jim only knew how fucking much John preferred Paul stripped out of those drainies as well.  
  
“So I’m off to Jin’s in a bit then, Paul. You’ll be ‘ere, right? Cook something for yer brother?” Standing by the cooker, Paul twisted his left leg, rubbing his right palm along his hip. Then he stopped, and crossed his arms. Then he shifted his weight to the other leg and winced slightly. The gritty mess under his trousers was unbearably excruciating. All Paul wanted to do was wash this dirty scum off his body. Right now, for fuck’s sake! Paul quickly brushed at his thigh to fight off another agonizing itch.  
  
 _“Shit, this’ll be amusin’!”_  John smirked.  
  
“Sure, Dad. I’ll ‘andle it.”  
  
“Paul — don’t we have an early show tonight?”  
  
Paul looked over at his seated mate with a look of confusion, tinged with suspicion. John’s face remained expressionless, except for the tiniest trace of a smile, a slight crack in the wall that Paul recognized straight off.  
  
Paul shifted his weight again, scratching his lad package furiously when his dad turned away to reach in the cupboard.  
  
“I need you to be ‘ere tonight, and look after yer brother when he gets home, Paul. I’m counting on ya!” Jim barked, as he groped around in the cupboard, searching for his favorite teacup.  
  
After silently mouthing the words “Fuck you!” to his smirking boyfriend, Paul answered slowly, trying to stay calm. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Dad. I’ll be ‘ere. We’ve the night off. Remember, John?”  
  
Paul spoke with a slight snarl, enough of a disgruntled tone for his dad to turn around and look at him. Yes — old Jim glanced over at him at exactly the moment that Paul had been forced to vigorously rub his chafed crotch again. Paul froze in mid-rub, both hands on his balls, his mouth open.  
  
“Oi! What the ‘ell is wrong with ya, son!” Jim questioned, with a look of shock and disgust.  
  
Leaning back dangerously in the old creaky chair, John lifted an eyebrow with wicked glee, tickled curious to hear what delightful horseshit would now roll off Paul’s multi-talented tongue.  
  
“I’ ‘ave a bit of the lurgy, Dad.” Paul assumed his sick face – the pathetic mask that every child tries to perfect at a young age. Shit though, McCartney was bloody terrible at it.  
  
 _“Looks more constipated than lurgy.”_  John chuckled silently.  
  
“So, I’m thinkin’ a hot bath would help, right? I’m gonna ‘ead upstairs and draw one.” Paul hollered over his shoulder, as he urgently scrambled up the narrow stairs, two steps at a time, to the second floor bathroom. “Have a good visit with Auntie Jin! Give her my regards then.”  
  
“Just be sure yer ‘round later, Paul.”  
  
“Alright, Dad!” The itchy boy shouted down in exasperation.  
  
Jim turned to face John, the two of them now left alone together in the cramped kitchen. A cheap clock ticked softly as they drank their tea silently for a few minutes. In the chair opposite the auburn haired boy, Jim sighed deeply. How the hell was Paul going to earn a decent wage and support a family when this rock and roll nonsense with Lennon finally ended? Christ, the lad was nearly twenty, with no real prospects or training to land a steady job. Finally, after another sigh, Paul’s dad broke the awkward stillness in the kitchen.  
  
“How’s Mrs. Smith getting’ on then?”  
  
 _"Fuck!"_  
  
John hated small talk, especially meaningless chitchat crap with Paul’s dad about bloody Mimi, of all things. His gaze narrowed.  
  
 _“Just stick a fuckin’ fork in me eye right now!”_  
  
“She’s well. Ta.”  
  
 _“Leave! Christ — for shit’s sake, just fuckin’ leave, will ya!!”_  
  
“Good to ‘ear. Alright, then. Guess I’ll be off. Best of luck to ya, son!”  
  
 _“What the fuck’s that s’pposed to mean, ya old shit?”_  
  
“Tara, sir.”  
  
After the front door closed, John hurried up the squeaky stairs after Paul. Hopefully, the beautiful boy would be soaking his sweet arse in the bath by now. All cleaned up and ready for more dirtying. John found the washroom door unlocked. Paul was in the hot bath, hair rinsed, eyes closed, head and arms resting blissfully on the tub lip. Steam and soap bubbles floated up above his relaxed, reclined body.  
  
“Gone then?” Paul said calmly, settled down in complete contentment, not bothering to open his eyes. John shut the bathroom door and leaned against the tiny sink.  
  
“Yeah, fuckin’ finally.”  
  
“Hmmm. Good. Come join us in the bath, luv.” Paul hummed with a smile.  
  
John cautiously walked over to the edge of the tub and peered down into the water. Bubbles and foam from the bath soap obscured his view of the boy’s submerged, naked beauty.  
  
“I’m not getting’ into that shit water, all nasty from yer cum shot and whatever other filthy crap stuck to ya back at the fort.”  
  
Paul opened one eye but did not raise his head. “I rinsed off first, John. It’s a clean bath. C’mon in then, ya poofter.”  
  
“What if yer old man forgot something and comes back ‘round. Old blokes do shit like that all the bloody time.” John blurted out, anxiously fidgeting with his fingernails.  
  
“Ya nervous ‘bout getting’ caught then, luv? Too scared to just slip yer gorgeous arse into this delicious warm water with me?” Paul snorted, relishing for a change John’s obvious apprehension.  
  
John huffed and pulled over the rickety bath stool, sitting down by the edge of the tub, his back to the door, facing his bathing boyfriend. He pushed his T-shirt sleeve up over his taut bicep and lowered his left hand into the water, grabbing hold of Paul’s soft prick. With eyes still shut tight, Paul’s lips parted and his breath quickened, as John firmly stroked him under the water to aching hardness, occasionally kneading his swollen, sore balls gently with his fingers.  
  
“Hmm — a wankin’? Is that all I’m getting’?” Paul whispered between breaths, with a smirk.  
  
“Shut the fuck up and enjoy it, ya tosser!”  
  
Paul suddenly sat up, water splashing out over the edge of the tub. He firmly locked his mouth on John’s lips and grabbed the guitarist by two fistfuls of his silky maple hair. Paul quickly dragged him into the tub, fully clothed, shoes and all. Waves of warm bath water spilled over onto the white tile floor.  
  
“Fucker!” John laughed, in between hungry, sloppy bath snogs.  
  
Just then the closed bathroom door burst open. Baby brother Mikey was home! Early. The whiny twat.  
  
“What the ‘ell’s goin’ on! What the fuck are you two doin’?”  
  
Without skipping a beat, Paul gasped out. “John was handin’ me a wash rag and slipped. He fell in, Mike! Help ‘im out then, will ya!” Laughing hysterically under his breath, John made absurd drowning noises to spice up the comical scene a bit.  
  
“Cor, shite!”  
  
Mike rushed over with a panicked look on his face. The younger, gullible lad pulled John up by his drenched T-shirt, awkwardly dragging the much larger boy part way out of the tub, off of his naked older brother. The younger McCartney didn’t notice Paul’s hard throbber bobbing just under the bath bubbles.  
  
“Ta, Mikey!” John snapped sarcastically, as he rose to his feet, sopping wet and sporting a nasty sneer. “Now get the fuck outta ‘ere, ya weanlin’ cunt.”  
  
Scared shitless of Lennon, like most lads he knew, Mike scrambled to catch his balance on the slippery tile floor and made a quick exit to his room. Soaked to the skin, John stormed over and shut the door. He turned the door lock, checking to be sure it caught.  
  
“Put this down in our bloody contract thing, Macca.” John said with a lower, hushed voice.  
  
 **“Lock the fuckin’ door, always!”**  
  
Paul chuckled, slowly lowering himself down in the warm bath water, closing his eyes again. “Yeah… that one’s bloody important, luv. Oughta mind that vow!”  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1964**  
  
  
John marched down the brightly-lit, carpeted New York hotel corridor, shit annoyed and slightly sloshed from two quick glasses of Epstein’s expensive red wine — pretentious French piss that had left an aftertaste in his mouth, close to what John imagined frog crap must taste like.  
  
He had a folded newspaper tucked under one arm and a glass tumbler of scotch and coke on ice in the other hand. John was still wearing the same dark suit from the photo shoot this morning, now hopelessly wrinkled and minus the jacket, shirt tails pulled out, his tie loosened and mangled from another long, brutal day that was only barely half over.  
  
“Where the fuck’s McCartney?” John growled at Mal, who was standing near the entrance of their main suite on the cordoned off floor of the fancy hotel. Having finished their late lunch, the worn-out musicians had a couple of hours off before the next onslaught of the press freak show, and a quick rehersal later that day for tomorrow night’s big performance. Even that loud fucking DJ wanker from the radio station had been sent away to give the lads a bit of much needed rest.  
  
“Well, Paul might be havin’ a kip in his room, I s’ppose, John. Did ya look there?”  
  
 _“No, cause I’m a stupid prick!”_  John berated himself silently.  
  
The tips of John’s nerves were completely frayed, his mind was buzzing incessantly. They were here, in New York, shit — in America! They had arrived the day before on an early February morning to screaming throngs of lunatic fanbirds and some circus press conference at the bloody airport. Then this morning they’d been forced to do a fucking photo shoot in a snowy city park, in the bleeding freezing cold.  
  
At least George had the good sense to get feverish and bugger out on whole farce.  
  
And Lennon, of all fucking people, had to smile like a bloody idiot while carrying somebody’s heavy, wailing Yank brat through this frigid park on his goddamn aching shoulder! When they returned to the Plaza Hotel, already exhausted, the suite was packed with daft reporters, and American radio and music personalities. The whole thing was bloody amazing, bloody insane — just bloody fucking surreal.  
  
“Which room is that again, Malcolm?” John’s growl had softened at the calming effect of Evans’ deep voice.  
  
“That one — over there, John.” Mal pointed.  
  
“Ta.”  
  
John strode over to the door of Paul’s single room. He thought about knocking on the door, or calling out Paul’s name, but he didn’t.  
  
Didn’t know why he didn’t — he just didn’t.  
  
After shoving the newspaper under his other arm, the rhythm guitarist turned the unlocked doorknob slowly and pushed the door open quietly, finding the hotel room fairly dark, lit only by beams of strong midday sunshine peeping in at the edges of the heavy, drawn drapes. At the back of the dim posh room was a large bed, covered in rich quilted covers and too many fancy hotel pillows. And at the center of the huge bed, huddled completely under those luxurious covers, were two shapeless lumps moving around, moaning and slurping.  
  
Shit. Now John was fucking mad.  
  
After ripping off some of the layers of lush bed sheets, he barked at the naked pair.  
  
“Get the fuck out, darlin’!”  
  
Paul’s dark-haired, perfect skull was jammed between some young bird’s trembling thighs. He lifted himself up on his elbows and turned to look at the figure standing at the end of the bed. His lower face was soaked shiny.  
  
“What the ‘ell do ya think yer doing, John!”  
  
“Get out now, fan girlie!” John voice fell much lower, and much more deadly serious. He took a large gulp of his ice cold Scotch and Coke.  
  
The dazed blonde girl looked down at Paul, who quickly glanced away from her with a look of annoyance, while biting his wet lower lip. Disappointed and confused, she jumped off the bed, scooped up her clothes, haphazardly threw them over her shaking naked body, and ran out the room door. Having heard Lennon’s roar, Mal was waiting and ready. He immediately wrapped the frightened thing up in her winter coat and led her out of the suite in the direction of the elevators. With some autographed glossy promo photos for her troubles, of course. Although John hadn’t signed that batch yet, the lazy git.  
  
Stretched out on his stomach, Paul laid his cheek against the fluffy mattress, zonked from jet lag and aching from unfulfilled lust.  
  
“What did ya bloody do that for, John? She was lovely, and the bird had great tits.”  
  
“What, McCartney? Didn’t ya fuckin’ ‘ear me this morning? I was talking right at ya, wasn’t I? Said Nell was taking Cyn out shoppin’ for a couple of hours after lunch. Why the ‘ell did ya pull a bird, you deaf twit!”  
  
“Shut the fuckin’ door, Lennon.” Paul’s frustrated desire quickly turned to seething anger. He sat up, wiped his wet chin off with the back of his hand, pulled the sheet over his naked lower torso and grabbed a smoke and a lighter off the nightstand. The bassist hissed back at John between drags.  
  
“Oh, so that’s it! I’m s’pposed to be waitin’ for ya then, am I, John? When you’ve a bit of free time in yer fuckin’ schedule! What? Bent over and lubed up, with me trousers round my ankles, huh? Waiting for the great Lennon to ram his prick up me arse whenever the fucker has time for me!”  
  
Christ…  
  
John knew it would create problems if he brought Cyn along on this trip. But she looked so bleeding sad and distressed, with those red, droopy puppy eyes, bawling over how poorly Mimi had been treating her. So John caved in and asked her to come along on the big adventure; he wanted to give the frazzled young mother a bit of a break, told her to go splash out and buy some useless, expensive baubles. Besides, he figured, he and Paul wouldn’t find much time on this whirlwind American visit to be alone in private anyroad.  
  
Course though, if Cyn weren‘t here, he and Paul could have insisted that they share a room in all these posh American hotels; the lovers would have had nights and early mornings to cuddle and shag. Room service too, probably. Bottles of Scotch and bowls of melted chocolate. Fuck. No bloody wonder Paul was right pissed off.  
  
Cor! John had regretted his decision to bring his wife along well before the married couple had even made it halfway from the London hotel to Heathrow.  
  
Sensing imminent defeat, John stared with remorse into Paul’s burning eyes.  
  
“Listen, Paul — I asked Cyn to come on this trip, ok? She needed a rest from Mimi’s screeching and scolding. I shouldn’t ‘ave done it though. I made a bloody huge mistake. Is that what ya wanna ‘ear?”  
  
“Goddamn right it is! This is fuckin’ America, John! This is what we’ve worked for, what we fuckin’ starved and fought and bled for — shit, for over seven long years now, John!” Paul’s eyes were focused and sharp, his mouth pinched in fury. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold back his pain.  
  
“This — this tour is ours, John. Our trip — mine and yours! And ya brought along Cyn, ya fuckin’ prick!”  
  
Paul’s voice trailed off at the end. He knew he was acting like some spoiled jealous twat, but he didn’t really give a shit right now. He’d been holding in this green venom for a couple of days. Fucking John had screwed up this American tour before it even started. Shit, he hadn’t even thought to ask Paul if he could bring along his little ball and chain. Paul threw his hairy bare legs off the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on his knees, combing his fingers through his mess of locks as he exhaled another cloud of smoke.  
  
“I’m sorry, Paul.”  
  
“Yer always sorry, John. Yer sorry for snoggin’ Stu, sorry for yer queer holiday in Spain. Yer sorry for fuckin’ everything, aren’t ya? I’m bloody sick of it, ya know?” As his eyes began to water, Paul felt control slipping away.  
  
And then it happened. It was happening more often lately, he noticed. When the bassist turned to face John, Paul’s expression was stone dead cold. Fucking bloody arctic — and completely shut down — shut off — professional and all. Shit, John realized that he was already starting to lose him. John shut his eyes momentarily and swallowed the welling knot of pain, like he almost always did.  
  
“I’ll shag a tasty bird whenever the fuck I want, John.” Paul said the frozen words without passion, without anger, without anything.  
  
John exhaled and walked over, calmly set his drinking glass and paper on the floor beside the bed and sat down next to Paul. He grabbed Paul’s hand, intertwining their fingers, and spoke low and silky.  
  
“Ya know that I’m a complete shithead of a boyfriend, right? Ya knew that back at the start too.” John reached down and picked up his drink, taking another hearty gulp. “S’ides, luv — I didn’t fuckin snog Stu.”  
  
“Yeah — I know — I know.” Paul relaxed and melted a bit, as he smashed his spent cigarette out in the expensive crystal ashtray.  
  
“I love ya, Paul. Ya know that too, don’t ya? I’m sorry that I fucked this tour up and brought the wife along.”  
  
John brushed a rogue lock of thick hair away from Paul’s eyes. “We’ll put it in the contract, alright Paul? No birds allowed to come on tours.”  
  
Paul shook his head and chuckled weakly at the pun. “Wanker.”  
  
“A bloody fuckable one. C’mon, luv.” John flashed his most sexy smile with a quick wink, as he stood up still holding Paul’s hand.  
  
“Let’s wash that bird bevvy off yer beautiful face and lemme give ya a good knee trembler in yer posh shower.” Paul looked up at him from underneath his heavy lashes, his lustful cravings churning stronger in his aching groin.  
  
 _“Mmm... only yer the one taking it up the arse, darlin’!”_  
  
John pulled the naked young man up off the bed. But before John had a chance to react, Paul grabbed John’s left wrist, bending and twisting his arm behind his back. With his strong left hand, he clenched a thick handful of John’s hair.  
  
Mop tops made for perfect shagging handles.  
  
Paul had figured he could get the upper hand in a wrestling love match pretty quickly, considering that his disheveled, clothed lover had much more to grab hold on to for leverage. After a brief, half-hearted struggle, John finally dropped his head back and laughed, already now well in the mood for delightful surrender.  
  
“Let’s go ‘ave that fuckin’ shower.” Paul growled over John’s shoulder into his right sideboard. Fuck, how Paul loved the feel of John’s bristly sideboards. John had always had them, as far as he could recollect. Lennon was probably born with baby sideboards, the gorgeous fucker.  
  
Paul easily pushed John through the bedroom into the grand bathroom, covered from floor to ceiling in gauche white Italian marble. It was no stinking Hamburg cinema toilet, or a shabby Council House loo, John smirked in satisfaction. Paul was pissing in a bloody Roman palace! Fuck you, old man.  
  
Tangled together in a hammerlock hold, the two hobbled over to the opulent shower; John in his rumpled suit at the front, Paul shoving him from behind… stark bum naked.  
  
“Don’t fuckin’ move, ok?” Paul loosened his grip on John’s wrist and let go of his hair to reach over and turn on the shiny bronze shower spicket.  
  
 _“Aaah — sloppy, luv.”_ John snorted silently, a smirk lighting up his face.  
  
All of a sudden he forcefully turned around, knocking Paul off balance and into the large shower stall. The two grabbed and shoved each other in playful rough lust under the soaking hot spray for a couple of minutes, until barefoot Paul almost slipped to a hard crash on the wet marble floor. John caught him just in time.  
  
“Shit! Could ‘ave cracked me bloody skull open.”  
  
“Maybe ya should stop fuckin’ squirmin’ and just give it up to me, luv.” John snarled, both of his hands now twisted roughly in Paul’s hair.  
  
John bent forward for a deep kiss; Paul pulled back slightly, luring John to lean in farther, his balance becoming unsteady. Before John knew what happened, Paul ripped out of John’s grasp and pushed the guitarist face first up against the warm stone shower wall. The hard shower spray drenched them both as Paul held John’s wrists above his head. Shit, John’s expensive new suit was pretty well ruined now; Epstein was gonna be bloody furious! Sod it… fuck the posh queer.  
  
“Let’s get ya out of this suit, baby.” Paul murmured into John’s sopping hair, feeling John give up and give in to his lips and fingers. Within moments, Paul had stripped John of everything, throwing clothes and shoes into a sodden pile on the glistening bathroom floor. He stripped him arse naked, peeled off every piece of clothing… except John’s tie. He left that wet silk cord of control knotted loosely around John neck.  
  
Holding John’s wrists together in his left hand, Paul glided his right hand up John’s smooth, wet chest, while rubbing his hard prick against John’s slippery, soaped bum. He took hold of the dangling tie and pulled the two loose ends back over John’s shoulder, letting them drape down the hollow of his soaked back. With nimble fingers, Paul reached back around and grasped the circle of silk resting loosely under John’s jaw and began to pull the necktie cord up to John’s face.  
  
“Open yer mouth, luv.”  
  
“What?” Eyes closed, breathing rapidly and shallow, John was losing coherence.  
  
“Open yer fucking mouth for me, John.”  
  
John slowly parted his quivering lips as Paul pulled the tie gag up and into his warm mouth. He gently tightened the loop knot at the back of John’s head just snug enough to keep the fabric cord in place. After all, they had their big debut performance on the American telly tomorrow night. Gag marks on John’s gorgeous face would likely not go over well with the young, innocent fangirls. Shit, if John showed up to the television studio with rough shagging bruises on his beautiful mouth, Brian would fucking crap in his trousers. Paul chuckled under his breath.  
  
Paul’s left hand let go of John’s wrists while he wrapped the tie ends around his right hand, tenderly pulling John’s head back towards him. Paul ordered John to stroke himself hard, while he grabbed hold of his throbber and thrust his aching cock into John’s wet, soapy arse.  
  
John would remember this fucking knee trembler. He’d be thinking about this bang tomorrow night on the telly.  
  
Half an hour or so later, the two were snuggled together naked under the covers of the big, luxurious bed in Paul’s room. John had passed out cold, exhausted from the trans-Atlantic travel, his frayed nerves, too much drink, and an exceptionally draining, unbelievable fuck. John lay on his back, head cradled in a plush pillow, lips parted, lost in waves of deep sleep.  
  
Despite the afternoon hour, the draped room was still dark; they probably had another hour or so before the next carnival act started. Then Paul heard a clicking noise; the door to his hotel room slowly opened. Quietly Paul pulled the silk sheet over his head, obscuring his identity under the mass of covers. He was wide awake now, his eyes open and focused.  
  
“Paul?”  
  
Fuck. It was Epstein.  
  
Brian walked over to the bed, his steps frozen in place when he got close enough to recognize John’s peaceful, relaxed features. After too many seconds, Brian cautiously moved closer and bent down to drink in the alluring sight of John sleeping contently.  
  
Shit. Paul could bloody see what the fucker was doing right through the transluscent sheet.  
  
Paul watched as Brian leaned down closer, his face hovering above John’s mouth, and licked his lips in hunger. John was obviously near comatose with exhaustion. Just one taste of those lips — one first taste, Brian thought; no one will ever know.  
  
Paul snarled silently under the covering of silk.  
  
Nervously, Brian parted his lips and moved even closer to John’s mouth.  
  
A wicked smirk lit up Paul’s furious face.  
  
Hard and fast, Paul jabbed John in the ribs with two fingers. Suddenly startled awake by the sharp pain in his side, John sat up violently, head butting Brian with terrible force in the process. Brian was knocked unconscious, dropping limply to the carpeted floor. Lennon had always been one hell of a nutter, Paul smiled.  
  
“What the fuck!” John groaned, rubbing his forehead, completely dazed as to what had just happened. Brian lay out of sight in the dim room, crumpled on the floor next to the bed.  
  
“Hush, luv.” Paul whispered, stroking John’s thick forearm. “Just a nightmare, darlin’. Go back to sleep.”  
  
John turned to look at Paul in the dim light, his blot-shot eyes half-open.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“We got a bit more time before we ‘ave to get up. Lay back down and finish yer kip, John.”  
  
John grumbled and reclined back into the plush bedcovers; he fell back into deep sleep in seconds. Still naked but now supremely satisfied, Paul got up and strode over to the hotel room door.  
  
Click.  
  
He snorted softly, as he mumbled to himself.  
  
“Lock the fucking door, always!”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**1962**   
  


Seated on his small bed with his legs dangling over the edge, wearing a black T-shirt and loose pajama bottoms, Paul leaned back lazily against the wall. He was freshly washed, his balls now squeaky clean, and happily empty from a rough wanking in the warm soapy bath. Paul licked his lips; they were still swollen and sore from the harsh, demanding kisses that John inflicted on his mouth.   
  
His lover had grabbed him in the bath by his sopping hair, twisting and pulling — devouring him, sucking on his nose, kissing his eyelids — while he stroked Paul’s cock, hard and fast under the bathwater bubbles to a fucking blinding orgasm. In those last intense seconds, John had smothered Paul’s scream with a firm hand clamped down over the boy’s trembling mouth. John delighted in watching that moment when Paul’s eyes rolled back in his head, his eyelids soon tightly shut, as Paul’s body rocked and then exploded into the warm bath water. Mike had heard the lustful noises coming from the upstairs bathroom; trying to listen to broadcast static on the radio in the downstairs front room, the teen had covered his ears with his hands and stayed quiet. He had long known better than to interrupt his brother and his prickly ted of a boyfriend when they were doing whatever the fuck they were doing upstairs when dad was out.   
  
Still aching from his violent, delicious release, Paul sighed in contentment on the bed; he reached over and opened the notebook from the fort, picking up a pencil from his side table. Sucking gingerly on the pencil stick, Paul studied the words now scribbled on the once blank page with schoolboy seriousness.   
  
“Alright then, we’ve got two things written down, luv.”   
  
 _1\. No snogging other blokes, ever  
2\. Lock the fucking door, always_  
  
“What should we put in ‘ere next, ya s’ppose?”  
  
Stretched out like a cat, lying on his back on Paul’s bedroom floor, John strummed mindlessly on Paul’s acoustic as he gazed up at the ceiling of the Forthlin room, a cloud of smoke rising above his head. He wasn’t supposed to be smoking in Paul’s room — old Jim’s bloody orders. No smoking in the house, Paul!   
  
Fuck that... fuck old man Mac and his bloody codger rules. McCartney should have known that John never paid mind to any fucking rules and regulations. If John wanted a smoke, he’d have a bloody smoke, for shit’s sake. Wearing a shirt and trousers borrowed from Paul, his own drenched clothes wrung to dry over the bathtub lip, John groaned slowly in annoyance.  
  
“Fuckin’ give it a rest, Paul, will ya.”  
  
“C’mon John! This is important. Let’s come up with few more, yeah?”  
  
“For shit’s sake — I gotta deal with Cyn being preggars, I gotta poke yer randy arse three fuckin’ times a day to keep ya from going out and humpin’ a bleedin’ phone box, and now ya want me poor ol’ brain to think up s’more bloody rules?”  
  
“Just a couple more, John.”  
  
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”  
  
They stayed there in Paul’s small room as the sun was setting, John playing random upside down chords out of boredom and habit, while more vows were suggested and then scribbled on the notebook paper. In that orange-pink sunset glow, at the end of another long summer day, the two lovers tried to predict some of the roadblocks and dangers they would face in the upcoming months and even years.   
  
 _Don’t do ever this. Make sure to do that. Be careful not to…_  
  
Paul wrote all of their rules down in a list on the cheap paper, and then signed his name at the bottom with dramatic flair.  
  
“Done! Alright, luv, yer turn.” Paul ordered, as he handed the notebook down to John.   
  
“What the fuck do ya want me to do with this?”  
  
“Copy this list on another sheet of paper and sign it, ya fuckin twit.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just do it, alright? That way there’ll be two copies of our contract — one for me, one for you. Oh and you should sign the one I wrote down too. We’ll both sign both copies. All official like.”  
  
John rolled his eyes, took a deep drag and groaned again. Shit, Macca was a fucking pain in the arse. A sweet pain, yeah — but fucking exasperating as hell when he had his mind fixed on something. And John rarely argued when he saw that very specific, completely-fucking-determined spark burning in Paul’s beautiful eyes. Right now, here in his small room, Paul’s eyes were ablaze with focus. Wouldn’t stop Lennon from giving him a bit of the mickey, though.  
  
“What if I wanted add something later? Some new blow job rule or other idea that I ‘appen to think of, huh?”  
  
“Then we’ll just bloody add to it, John. It’s just paper. It's not like it's carved in stone or anything!” Paul chuckled, shaking his head. “This contract is ours, luv — we can do whatever the fuck we want with it.”  
  
“No, yer right. Nothing’s written in stone, is it Paul?” John replied softly, lost in his thoughts again.  
  
That late afternoon, at 20 Forthlin in mid-June of 62, they made two copies of the contract, one in Paul’s legible but somewhat birdish handwriting for John, one in John’s unreadable chicken shit scratch for Paul. Didn’t matter how poor John’s handwriting was though — Paul already had the list memorized.  
  
“There — ‘ere’s me school work, mother.”  
  
Paul took the notebook back, glancing carefully back and forth between the two identical but preciously distinct copies.   
  
“I love you, ya know.”  
  
“Yeah, me too, Paul.”  
  
Both copies bore their immature signatures, the names of two lads still so simple, and completely naïve to the complexities of growing older, nevermind the insanity they would soon find whirling and whipping around them and their band. The money, the pressures — the unstoppable requests from everyone and their fuckhead cousin for more, and more, and more. Put this stupid fucking outfit on… hold your guitar this way… jump up and down, smile for us, now smile again, holding this fab product — fucking bloody hell. With the EMI recording contract now signed, the storm cloud was approaching fast. John hated storms; Paul hated most anything that got John nervous and worked up. But at least, as Paul would remind himself often, they had their contract now. Their pact to stay together, and not fuck this up. Two bloody copies of it, goddamit!   
  
As John closed his eyes and lit another forbidden smoke in Jim’s house, Paul took another glimpse again at his copy of the contract, his eyes lingering with affection on John’s misshapen hand-written letters.   
  
 _3\. Don’t tell anyone, no matter what_  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1962 (some two months earlier)**  
  
Much of the attic studio at the Kirchherr’s house was eerily dark, except for some light streaming in through the opened shutters at the window. Stu’s paintings, brushes and other assorted art shit were still strewn about the dusty room, like dead soldiers on a forgotten, foggy battlefield. Stu had died a few days earlier but his space still looked and smelled like he’d be back at any moment, flying through the door with some outrageous idea or moronic joke. Wearing his leather rocker outfit and heavy-framed glasses, John couldn’t tear his eyes away from one of Stu’s more recent paintings that had been propped up on an easel stand in the corner of the studio. John had never seen this piece of Stu’s before; he must have painted it after John’s last Hamburg trip. The colors were much more intense, more alive with bolder movement, at least more so than Sutcliffe’s usually dark and gloomy abstract canvases.   
  
“Still can’t believe he’s fuckin’ gone, Astrid.” John said softly, smoke trailing out of his mouth.   
  
Astrid said nothing. She had barely been able to move or even get out of bed for the past few days. John had warned her that she had to decide if she was going to live or die. And although she thought that in her mind she had chosen to live, her body still felt completely lifeless. Astrid was utterly, frigidly numb, with no idea when, or if, it would ever be better, let alone if she would ever feel anything close to normal again.   
  
Losing the love of your life, the one who you knew in your gut was the love of your life, without any fucking warning, in a violent fit of agony and pain, was so brutally close to actually sliding down into the dark abyss of blackness and death. No, it was fucking worse – it was far fucking worse to be the one left behind. She only wished that she had died too, that she and Stu had been allowed to cross over together. Metallic-like shivers ran up her back as she gazed at John’s profile, his strong features caught between a dance of light and shadow. Perfect as a photograph.   
  
“Never seen this one before. Bit different from his other work, isn’t it?” John asked, trying to tenderly pry Astrid out of her shell of grief.   
  
“He painted that one for you, John.” Astrid began to cry again, not with sounds, only silent tears running down her cheeks. “Stuart was going to give it to you after you and the others arrived here in Hamburg. He said that — he said that you would understand what he was trying to capture.”   
  
John took his glasses off and leaned in closer to the canvas, his eyes roaming over the blobs, scrapes and gentle brushstrokes of blue and red oil paint. It was pure, abstract brilliance — no words, no pictures, nothing recognizable, except for the pulsing force of the girating colors. Here, blue and red were separated by a firm contour line; there, those opposite colors blended seamlessly into unusual tones of dark purple. Although he had no idea what the fuck it was supposed to mean, at least not without Stu’s animated, complicated description that the artist had always gestured to explain his paintings, John knew this weird creation of his dead mate’s would be one of his most prized possessions, hung proudly on whatever wall of whatever fucking shithole he happened to call home.   
  
Suddenly the phone rang downstairs, breaking their reverie. Astrid left to take the call, leaving John alone to his swirling thoughts in the dimly lit attic space.   
  
 _“Don’t recognize it, do ya?”_  
  
 _“What the fuck was that?”_ John looked around the studio room, adjusting his glasses on his nose, searching for the source of the low, muffled words. Frustrated, he lit another smoke and turned back to the canvas.   
  
John often heard things — sounds, words, laughter, chords — things that other people didn’t seem to notice or hear at all. Christ, some days he heard bizarre shit all the fucking time. It was bloody fucking annoying. Julia had been just as sensitive; she had heard things too. Like her son, her mind had been strangely receptive to the sounds of forces invisible to most ordinary folks, regular people who were deaf to other worlds and possibilities.   
  
 _“It’s that energy, you know, the colored light that flows between you and Paul. Astrid knows now too, John. I told her about you and Paul.”_  
  
“Alright. Who or what the fuckin’ ‘ell is that?” John growled angrily into the air, as he turned back around slowly towards the direction of the ragged sound.   
  
 _“It’s gonna get fuckin’ hard, John. Yer gonna hurt each other and… I’ve seen what’s gonna ‘appen, ya know, at the very end. It’s bad. Well, I’ve seen what could ‘appen, anyroad. I’ve come to find out that there’s always free will, luv. Nothing’s ever writ in stone, is it?”_  
  
“Stu, ya fucking poofter — bloody hauntin’ me from the grave, now are ya?” John snarled suspiciously, his eyes fixed back on the red and blue canvas, not even bothering to turn around this time.  
  
 _“I love ya, John. Always did. Not the way McCartney loves ya, but still, it was love.”_  
  
“What do ya want from me, Stuart?”  
  
 _“Just keep a mindful eye out for Astrid, please John? Please fuckin’ take care of yerself. And most important — watch out for… Christ, just take care of Paul, ok? Ya haven’t much time, luv.”_  
  
“What’s gonna happen to Paul, Stu?” Now John was growling, angry and confused. He dug his fingernails into his palms, biting down on his lower lip, turning around to shout low and dark into all corners of the attic. “Stuart? What’s this about Paul that yer sayin’? What’s gonna ‘appen to him? Stuart!”  
  
Nothing.   
  
No answer.   
  
The air in the attic studio was still and perfectly silent. The noises had completely stopped, except for the rhythmic sounds of John’s rapid breaths and heart beats.  
 _  
“Fuckin’ free will? Not much time? Bloody riddles, Sutcliffe!”_  
  
Spooked and jumpy, John turned quickly to face the door when he heard footsteps coming up the wooden stairs in the direction of the top floor studio. Two sets of footsteps, he reckoned. Astrid came through the door first, carrying a tray of tea and German biscuits. Close behind was Paul, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt under his black leather jacket. He looked really fuckable, and really fucking uncomfortable. The bassist fidgeted nervously, rocking back and forth in his boots, tilting his head, biting his nail. McCartney did not want to fucking be in dead Stu’s artsy shit studio. Astrid placed the metal tray down on a small wooden stool and left the room to Stu’s mates, to the beautiful, talented boys she now knew were secret lovers. In love with each other for years, Stu had said to her in bed one night with a sad smile. They were true soulmates, like him and Astrid, Stu had said wistfully.   
  
“Ta, luv.” John nodded to Astrid as she left down the stairs, his gaze captivated by Paul’s nervous ticks and otherwise ansty antics.   
  
“Whatcha doing ‘ere, Macca?”  
  
“Epstein’s got some meeting set up for us with some German record bloke. We gotta be over on the other fuckin’ side of Hamburg in a few, John.”  
  
“Shit. Brian’s got no sense of timin’, the bloody poof.”  
  
Paul winked somewhat uncomfortably at his boyfriend. “That’s why he’s the band  _manager_ , luv.”   
  
As he tried to relax in Stu’s sacred sanctum, Paul walked over to the easel in the corner near John. “So what’s this, then? Another priceless masterpiece?”  
  
“Astrid said that Sutcliffe painted it for me. Don’t know why, though.” John lied. “What do ya think of it?”  
  
Stabs of jealously pierced Paul’s stomach.   
  
“Same ol’ strange, shapeless Stu shit, I guess. Never was much me taste, really.  What’s it fuckin’ supposed to mean?”  
  
“Dunno.” John lied again. Whatever the spooky fuck was going on, this was between him and Stu.  
  
They both turned in unison when they heard Astrid calling to them from the bottom of the stairs.  
  
“I must be off now. That was my teacher that rang earlier. I must go the university, boys. I’ll be back soon.”  
  
“Ah! That’s a good fraulein, Astrid. Get outta the house and get yerself some fresh air! We’re leavin’ in a bit anyroad, darlin’!” John shouted down the stairs.   
  
John turned around to find Paul staring at Stu’s blue and red canvas. Paul couldn’t understand why he couldn’t stop looking at the bloody thing. It wasn’t that fucking good; it made no sense. But Stu had painted it specifically for John. His John. And now Stu was dead. And dead Stu would stay forever young, wouldn’t he? He’d never grow old and wrinkled like Paul would — he’d never make any more fuck ups, he’d never piss John off again. Stu would never fucking disappoint John. No, Sutcliffe would forever shine now as the eccentric, genius painter, as John’s best mate from the art college, as John’s trusted confidant, as John’s avant-garde soulmate. Fuck. Paul realized at that moment that he’d forever be competing for John’s heart with something he couldn’t defeat — a dead bohemian artist, a martyr to wild creativity and abandon, a fucking memory that could be rewritten and twisted into any shape for any reason. As Paul’s heart cracked, another deep sliver of glass sliced through him.  
  
John saw the pained looked in Paul’s eyes. He walked over and wrapped his arms around Paul’s chest, whispering into his ear from behind.  
  
“Paul, it’s alright.  He knew about us, ya know.”  
  
Paul froze, his eyes opened wide. Quickly he shook off John’s loving arms. “What! What did ya just fuckin’ say!”  
  
“Paul, luv — he knew. He figured it out. Told me he knew ‘bout us one night back at Gambier when we were both shit pissed. Smashed his face up a bit, but — well, Stu didn’t have a problem with it — with us being together, ya know?  Stuart said that ya were good for me.”  
  
Paul tried to stay clam, tried to force his breathing to slow down, tried to ease the tightening in his chest. Paul fucking tried to stay in control.  
  
“Sutcliffe fuckin’ knew about us!”  
  
“Astrid does too.”  
  
“Christ, John! For fuck’s sake, did ya actually  _tell_  her?”  
  
“Stu told her, luv. Haven’t talked to Astrid about it, though. Probably never will, I s’ppose.”  
  
“We can’t fuckin’ tell people, John! Sides all the other shit, it’s bloody illegal, isn’t it! Ya wanna get fuckin’ thrown in prison for buggering?”  
  
John took a deep breath, trying to stay calm in the face of Paul’s latest wave of irrational panic. “I didn’t tell anyone, Paul. Ya understand that, right?” His voice was low and sharp, more biting than he intended. The two musicians stood in dead Stu’s studio and stared at each other in battle stance, a fight for dominance, a stupid mind game fought with their eyes that could become much more lethal than they realized, yet.  
  
Paul broke the eye-lock first this time, and glanced down at the floor. “Brian knows too.”  
  
“What!  How?  Can he spot an arse fucker a mile off then?”  
  
“I told him, John. On accident, mind ya. But, yeah — I fuckin’ told him.”  
  
“Perfect. Just bloody perfect, luv. Fuck, I’ll make sure Epstein keeps his poof gob shut. And Astrid won’t say anything. Nobody else knows, right? We don’t say a fuckin’ word to anyone, ever. Not for any bloody reason, Paul. It’s too dangerous.”  
  
Paul realized at that moment that John actually fucking got it. For all his fearless posturing, his “I don’t give a rat’s arse” attitude about nearly fucking everything, John did understand the dire consequences of any carelessness when it came to them. For better or worse, Paul reckoned, they were on this crazy, unlawful journey together, for now anyroad.   
  
Paul reached up and tenderly took hold of John’s face. He carefully took off the older boy’s heavy glasses, putting them in John’s jacket pocket like Paul always did.  
  
“Let’s make love. Here. Right now.” Paul whispered.  
  
“What? In Stu’s studio? Seriously, luv?”  
  
“Yeah. He won’t have a problem with it, will ya, Stuey boy? I mean ya said so, John, didn’t ya? The poofter fancies the idea of us being together and all, does he, the queer lover? Let’s give ‘im a fuckin’ show, John.”  
  
John laughed hard as tears rolled down his cheeks. The release of the tension washed throughout his worn body, his muscles still aching from the tragic loss of his old college mate. As John caught his breath, Paul took charge of the room, took over the energy in Stu’s attic space, his soft mouth sucking gently on John’s lips.   
  
Paul led John over to the old cot in Stu’s makeshift bedroom in the other corner. The irony wasn’t lost on Paul. Did John ever fuck Stu here, he wondered? For the rest of Paul’s life, he’d never be really sure what had happened between John and Stu; John would never share it with Paul. The guarded, slightly sadistic part of John liked to keep Paul guessing about things like that; John always adored building a mystery.   
  
Paul layed down on the bed on his back, pulling John over him, their mouths quickly locked in a deep snog, their cocks grinding hungrily against each other through their trousers. In the shadows of the studio, they undressed each other quickly, kissing and groaning and laughing, as leather and denim piled up on the floor beneath the bed. Now they could finally feel each other, skin against skin, hardness sliding across hardness and then back again, hands and lips tasting everywhere, touching and teasing every piece of skin they could reach. Paul moaned, desparate with fucking desire; he needed John inside him, now. As he moved to roll over on his stomach, John put his fingers against Paul’s lips.   
  
“No, baby. Stay like this, ok?” The words felt like silk as John’s voice caressed Paul’s ears, embraced his heart with more love than Paul had ever felt before, more love than he ever knew was even possible to feel. After John readied the beautiful boy with his wet tongue, he spread Paul’s legs wider, tilting Paul’s hips up towards his own throbbing cock with his strong right arm. Paul closed his eyes and stretched his arms above his head on the mattress, clasping his hands together tightly in anticipation of that delicious sensation, that intense overwhelming feeling of John penetrating him, becoming part of him, one with him. Fucking owning him.  
  
As John entered, Paul wrapped his legs around John’s tight back muscles, squeezing him with his thighs, rubbing his bare feet across John’s spine. Paul fucking loved it when John took him like a bird, when John hungrily kissed his mouth, looked through his eyes into his soul, all the while thrusting and grinding so fucking deep inside Paul’s shaking body. Paul fucking loved it when he felt his own aching prick being rubbed and teased, pulsing wet, between their sweat soaked stomachs. The dark-haired boy didn’t last long; his warm cum soon covered their abdomens as Paul collapsed from his seering climax. Feeling the body beneath him surrender completely to pleasure, John increased the strength and speed of his thrusts, impaling Paul hard and deep until he emptied everything into his boyfriend’s beautiful arse with a tearful moan. Fucking perfect. Perfect fucking.   
  
 _“Ha!  Always knew you’d be the bird, pretty Pauliel!”_   Stu bent over in laughter, wiping his eyes.   _“Tighter than a frigid fuckin’ virgin, wasn’t that, John, luv?”  
_  
The hilarity mixed with the gut-wrenching pain was too much. Dizzy and drained, Stu tried to catch his breath. Shit, you weren’t supposed to feel this kind of pain when you were fucking dead. But Stu couldn’t get out of his mind how terrible it had felt when he was shown how these two were gonna hurt each other — when he saw them fucking rip each other apart into tattered shreds. Nearly destroy bloody everything they created, everything they cherished.   
  
And what about John? How the fuck could Stu stop that from happening?  He’d have to interfere — somehow, when the time was right. Fucking bloody hell, Lennon.   
  
 _“I wonder...”_ Stu mused. Maybe in order to try and stop it he’d have to make a ghoulish visit to McCartney one day —spook the arrogant prick, just a tad, frighten him into action.   
  
Stu chuckled with sorrowful sigh and disappeared.   
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1968**  
  
Paul sat at the piano, mindlessly running his fingers over the keys, picking out bits of disconnected tunes here and there, a smoke dangling from his lips, a much too early, already drained glass of scotch resting by his feet. The session to lay down two more tracks for the double album would start in about an hour, if everyone showed up on fucking time, that was. Paul was early on purpose, as usual. He needed a bit of space these days to settle in, settle down, get his mind ready. He needed to prepare. He had to be here bloody early, be in this cavernous studio by himself, be sure that his heart was securely sealed in a wrapping of armored steel before his band mates showed up.   
  
Before John showed up. And not alone. John was never alone anymore.  
  
Paul stopped his playing to open the sheet of paper again, a sheet of paper resting innocently on the piano bench, already worn at the corners from too many foldings and unfoldings. He read the words. They were so simple, so ordinary, but they said everything. Everything he couldn’t say with his own vocal chords now. Not yet. Maybe never again.  
  
As Paul read over the hand-written words one more time, John walked through the unlocked studio door. Early, and fucking alone.  
  
“Macca. Yer ‘ere extra early, as usual.”  
  
“Evening, John. You’re by yerself then, are ya?”  
  
“For a few minutes. In the loo. Got something on yer mind, Paul?”  
  
Paul would need more than a few fucking minutes to say what was on his mind, ya prick. Paul didn’t even bother to answer. He didn’t bother much with trying to say anything to John anymore, other than bloody work crap, bitter words that almost always ended in nasty scabs. That’s all that was left now — and even that was crumbling into pieces quickly too. Paul had known it would all start to fall apart for sure when him and John broke up, when they ended it for good. And he was pretty bloody sure they had done just fucking that a couple of months ago.   
  
Sometimes Paul’s heart played tricks on him still though, wicked mean games, phantom notions out of the corner of his eye that John still looked at him that special way once in a while, touched him on the shoulder with some fucking decayed fragment of their love.   
  
Bollocks. It was all fucking gone and Paul knew it. Contract or no contract, they were over. Rules or no rules, it was dead. Just move the fuck on, McCartney! Leave Lennon to his drugs, his booze, his fucking bohemian twat.  
  
“Ya can say whatever the fuck ya want to in front of both of us, Paul. In front of her. You know that, right?” Despite John’s gentle tone, Paul could taste the venom on John’s tongue.  
  
“No — no I can’t, John.  All I have to say to ya right now is private shit.  Things that are just between me and you.”  
  
“There’s nothing just between me and you anymore, Paul.” John pushed away his stringy hair and took a long drag before snarling again. “You ended that, ya remember, ya cunt?”  
  
Paul looked up from the keys, staring harshly and coldly into the icy reflections of John’s round lenses.  
  
“You fucking forced me to, arsehole!  Remember  _that_  part, luv?”  
  
“Bollocks! Oh — just fuck it, Paul. You can tell me any private shit you want in front of her now.  Got it?  I told her about us, ya know.  She fuckin'  _knows_ , Paul!”  
  
Paul hadn’t seen that bone-shattering verbal bullet coming. He wasn’t ready for that.   
  
Not for that.   
  
Christ.   
  
Shit.   
  
It took a second or two for John’s missile to cut through his flesh and ricochet through his chest.  Fuck, the pain — the fucking agony. Paul couldn’t breath. His hands were bloody shaking.   
  
John had fucking told their bloody secret to that… Lennon had just handed over that lethal ammunition like a fucking wedding gift, to the one thing that fucking hated Paul more than anyone ever had. Shit, Paul wouldn’t — he couldn’t even know when she’d use it against him, when she’d be the one to decide to destroy him and his fucking career.  Hurt his family, for God’s sakes.   
  
Paul tried to stand up, tried to push himself up off the bench, just get up and get the fuck out of there. Fuck the recording session.  Fuck John.   Fuck all of this, goddamit!  
  
After a few more moments and several deep breaths, Paul gained some composure and rose to leave. Having grabbed the piece of folded paper on the bench next to him, he walked straight over to John’s lanky frame, now propped up in a chair at the other end of the studio.   
  
“I was gonna talk to ya about this.” Paul held up the ragged, folded sheet. “Fuck it now though, it’s not important.  Nothing’s important now, is it?  You made sure to destroy every last pathetic fucking bit of what we once had, didn’t ya, John.”  
  
“Poor Macca. Pissed off cause I broke another one of yer fucking shit rules, are ya, darling?” John was quaking inside, though he’d long ago learned how to hide that from Paul.  Was that Paul’s copy of the contract?   Shit. John held in the pain.    Fuck, Lennon knew what the hell he had done.  He was gonna be the one to end it once and for all, ya bird-faced fucker.  John started it with that sweet snog on the old golf course, and he’d be the one to fucking end it.  Right here.  Right now.  
  
Paul slowly lifted the folded paper between his two forefingers. The sound was quiet at first, just a small rip. Then another, followed by another louder slash and another rip. With no rush and or hesitation, Paul tore the paper into tiny pieces in front of John, letting the tidbits flutter like confetti down to the studio floor. He wasn’t sure if it was another game his mind was playing, but Paul would have sworn that he saw John’s eyes water a bit, saw his lips quiver in pain — just slightly, mind you.   
  
“Goodbye, John.” Paul turned to leave and headed for the door. Just then a shapeless dark mass scurried past him, making a beeline for John.  
  
Paul called back over his shoulder, snorting sarcastically. “Yeah, ya broke another bloody rule, didn’t ya!   Don’t even know which one it was this time, do ya John?”   
  
John inhaled on his smoke, his eyes like razor blades behind his glasses.   
  
“No, I don’t. Why don’t ya learn me on that, luv.”  
  
Paul flashed a trembling two-finger salute on his way out the door.  
  
“No snogging other blokes, ever — mother fucker!”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

_**4\. Trust each other**_  
  
  
 **1963**  
  
The taxi pulled up shortly before nine on that June night. John lept out of the car with Cyn in tow, and raced up the short path to Paul’s aunt’s house, already a bit pissed, and fucking frustrated. Course, once again, he and Cyn had been delayed by the baby’s howling colic; John’s ears were still ringing from that incessant, high-pitched screaming. But John’s fowl mood had little to do with his newborn son’s round the clock crying.   
  
Christ, he had been trying to find Paul all day to give him his present. John wanted a chance to give it to him in private, before the bloody McCartney bash started, and attention-whore John was ignored all together. John had expected to run into Paul earlier at the lunch gathering that Brian had thrown at the restaurant, but Paul never showed up; probably off snogging that frigid red head, John growled to himself.  
  
His stomach empty from a lack of proper food, the guitarist gently fingered the precious, wrapped box inside his jacket pocket. He was still unsure if Paul would actually like the goddamn thing, let alone wear it out in public. John had never seen Paul wear anything that could be called jewelry… course it wasn’t like the lad could have afforded any expensive trinkets until recently anyroad. But Ritch wore rings and other shit… maybe the lad would like it.   
  
Cor — what was he thinking, giving Paul something as intimate, something as obvious, as this? And what about the fucking song? John remembered the hand-written lyric sheet folded neatly inside the dark blue box, nestled underneath the piece of metal. Now he was writing bloody love songs to Paul, disguised as rhyming nonsense to some unnamed bird, of course. Birthday jewelry and love songs for another bloke — for his Paul. John felt like a fucking lovesick queer. And tonight at the Macca party, with all the attention focused on his birthday boy bassist, he figured he’d be a forgotten, snubbed lovesick queer.    
  
Oblivious to John’s tardy arrival, Paul was in high spirits, chatting, laughing and smoking with two members of the Fourmost in the back garden, where a feast of party food and booze was spread out on tables borrowed for the party. Jin had made huge platters of butties and other finger foods; steam from assorted hot, homemade dishes rose above the rented catering trays. Strings of party lights and candles were strewn throughout the garden, and a makeshift low wooden stage was thrown together for the night’s musical entertainment.   
  
No doubt about it. Paul was the star of the McCartney clan now, and his 21st birthday was cause for extra fanfare, even if he still didn’t have a proper fucking shit job. But now that he had a few quid in his pocket, and the fan fever was exploding throughout Britain, the boy seemed poised for success. Jim was still a bit wary, especially of that gruff Lennon lad, but Paul’s dad was noticeably pleased, and even quite proud. The old man took a swallow of his drink as he looked over affectionately at his eldest son.   
  
Standing next to Paul was the boy’s latest tasty reward for the band’s recent popularity, a beautiful crimson-haired actress from London. Yes, Paul was dating a posh southern bird, a well-off girl who was far too refined for his lower class northern arse; he was fucking moving up in the world!   
  
“Paul, dear — I want to give you my gift before it gets too late.” Jane tugged on his bicep, smiling sweetly.  
  
“Alright, luv. Let’s head inside and find a quiet spot then.” Paul winked, and kissed her pale cheek with his soft lips.   
  
As the striking couple maneuvred their way through Jin’s packed kitchen, Paul finally spotted John through the crowd near the front door. With his dark suit jacket peeled off and draped over his forearm, his tie loosened and dangling, John didn’t notice his boyfriend walking across the other side of the room. Course, Lennon wasn’t wearing his fucking glasses. Paul’s gaze focused and his step hesitated. Since Jane had forced him to skip Brian’s lunch party to attend her tedious play rehersal, he hadn’t seen John at all since yesterday. He wanted to go straight over to him — shit, he wanted to at least fucking touch him — but his blind mate was lost in conversation with Cyn and one of the guitar players from the Shadows. Momentarily frozen in place, drinking in the sight of his lover who was already looking a bit disheveled and bloody shaggable, Paul was soon roused from his lustful reverie; Jane was tugging on his arm, pulling him towards the quieter areas by the back rooms.   
  
Brian stood off in one corner, conversing with some record store bloke, but in reality, over the shoulder of the portly man, the manager was watching Paul and Jane wind their way through the house. Jane led Paul by the arm; she was clearly carrying a small present. Startled into action when he saw the gift box in her hand, Brian made some lame arse but very polite excuse to break free from the conversation; in less than a minute, he was following the couple through Jin’s Liverpool home.   
  
Discretely following them, mind you.   
  
It had been a smart move to encourage this convenient, made-for-publicity romance, Brian reminded himself. Paul’s image needed a real, living, breathing girlfriend; it was just icing on the cake that Jane was bright, well mannered and talented. Just in time too, Brian thought. Already in Brian’s very discrete circle of acquaintances, Paul was practically worshipped as one of the most desired, most fuckable arses in the Merseybeat scene. Every gentleman that Brian knew wanted to bend the boy over or get him down on his knees, or both. The rumors that Paul was queer had been flying around the clubs of Liverpool before Brian had ever laid his eyes on the beautiful, dark-haired lad; pretty Jane had been recently discovered, and easily romanced, just in bloody time. Brian took a deep breath and relaxed a tad as he saw the picture perfect couple head for a remote, empty corner.   
  
With silly drama, Jane suddenly stopped and wrapped her arms around Paul’s neck, pressing her tits against his chest, reaching up to give him a wet kiss.   
  
“Happy Birthday! Paul, I know we haven’t been dating all that long, so I hope you won’t think this too forward of me.” The seventeen year old giggled with an alluring smile as she handed over the gift box.   
  
Paul pulled apart the ribbon bow and opened the present. It was a silver bracelet, with his name boldly engraved on the front side of the flat ID bar. It looked like it could have cost a few pounds.   
  
“Ah, is this in case I forget me name, then?” He chuckled sweetly, kissing her forehead before returning to inspect the piece. “It’s fab, Jane. Ta, luv. Did ya have anything engraved on the back?”  
  
“Paul! No! That would be much too forward of me. But, do you like it? Will you actually wear it? Tell people your girlfriend gave it to you?”  
  
“Sure, luv.”   
  
Paul lied easily; he had no fucking plan to ever wear a piece of bloody bird jewelrey on his wrist, especially out in public. What the fuck was this young bird thinking? What kind of shit gift was this? If she wanted him wearing her property tags on his person, she should have bought him a tie, or a fucking watch, for Christ sakes. A bloody expensive watch!  
  
“May I interrupt you two for just the briefest of moments?” Brian inquired from behind Paul’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jane, but I need to speak with Paul. Business, you know.”  
  
Jane nodded and walked away, understanding her new role as a Beatle girlfriend, but still she was disappointed. She never seemed to have more than five minutes alone with Paul when they were out at clubs or at parties with Paul’s band and their cronies. She had quickly fallen in love with the Liverpudlian musician two months ago; now she was stuck with his gang of mates nearly anywhere they went. Shit… half the time Jane couldn’t even understand what the hell these northern boys were even saying. She didn’t have to understand Lennon’s affected Scouser accent, though, to guess the rude, lewd remarks he was always tossing at her. She told herself to appreciate the fact that Paul at least tried not to laugh at John’s witty but dirty jokes.   
  
“Paul. John’s here.” Brian whispered in a very serious tone.   
  
Paul turned and raised an eyebrow with an expression of suspicion.  
  
“Yeah, I know, Brian. Saw ‘im by the front door.”  
  
“Oh, you did? Alright then. So sorry to have interrupted you. Lovely party, Paul — very lovely.”   
  
What the fuck was that? Brian had been acting extra bloody weird since he and John had got back from Barcelona. But not in the way that Paul, in his justified jealousy, would have guessed. No… not at all like he imagined Brian would have acted if Epstein and John had actually done something on their Spanish holiday. It was really fucking bizarre. Paul looked back down at the bracelet in the box and sighed. All he fucking wanted for his birthday was John’s gift. He glanced around the rooms, crowded with his very lively relatives and mates. Laughing, drinking, some even singing… no chance this party was ending early. Fuck.  
  
Just then Paul heard another voice talk in his ear from behind his shoulder. Only this one was low, deep… and soft, and silky.   
  
“Happy birthday, luv.” Paul turned around and got his first gift — John’s real smile — somewhat pissed crooked, but still real and bloody breathtaking.   
  
Paul shoved Jane’s box into his trouser pocket, but not before John noticed, even blind and all. John had thrown back a few drinks already, Paul quickly realized. John's white shirt tails were now pulled out; his uncomfortable costume was coming undone, one bit at a time. He looked gorgeous… bit bloodshot, but fucking gorgeous.   
  
“Upstairs then?”  
  
“I don’t even get a fucking ‘ello?” John chuckled.  
  
“Hello, John. Upstairs then, yeah?”  
  
Jane was gone. Brian was gone. They could sneak away for a few minutes now. If they moved fast! Paul was the special birthday boy after all… everyone wanted a piece of him tonight. Paul just wanted to be fucking sure that the right piece went to John. He grabbed the auburn haired boy by his dress shirt sleeve and jerked him towards the stairs. In moments, they were in Jin’s guest room, all floral fabrics and covered in old-fashioned lace.   
  
After a deep, tongue-wrestling snog, hands roaming, buttons undone, zippers pulled down, John stopped, catching his breath.  
  
“Cor, I almost forgot about it.” John reached down to grab his jacket. Paul had thought it was strange that John still even had his jacket… or that John even knew where his fucking jacket was.  
  
“Here, luv. Happy Birthday.” John whispered seductively, brushing his lips along Paul’s rough chin.   
  
Beaming like a wee lad with a five o’clock shadow, Paul slowly opened the small box. His eyes opened wide with shock when he saw John’s gift.   
  
Shit.  
  
“John, luv — um — Jane just gave me the same fucking bracelet thing not less than ten minutes ago.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I bought it in Spain. Brian helped me pick out it, ya know.”   
  
John began kissing Paul’s neck, his lips running up and down Paul’s beautiful throat.   
  
“Brilliant idea, though, that wily poof had. Bought two of ‘em, identical, except for the engraved words on the back of mine.”  
  
Trying to catch his breath, his heart suddeny racing, Paul pulled from John’s kisses and flipped the ID bar over.   
  
In tiny letters it read: You suit me. I balance you. Love, John  
  
Stu’s beautiful haunting words, spooky or not, had never left John’s mind. He would remember everything that Stu had ever said to him over the years. People didn’t fucking expect that from Lennon. For him to remember every meaningful word uttered by those he loved.   
  
Less than two months ago, he and Brian had gone to Barcelona to relax and unwind before the next big tour. Paul understood why John had gone, right? To make sure Brian knew his place in the greater scheme of things. Not get too fucking big for his crisply pressed knickers. Course, John knew he’d being stirring up rumors if he took off for a long holiday with Epstein. That was part of the purpose of that trip too. What would it feel like if people perhaps suspected something, if his mates looked at him a bit funny, if they called Lennon a queer? Could he handle it? To make things work with Paul, John was pretty sure he could cope with the cruel stares and names, but he wasn’t completely certain. The idea that John could safely test his shaky confidence in a foreign city, alongside an experienced poof, fascinated and terrified him.   
  
Most of all, though, John had needed to just talk to someone about him and Paul. Especially after Cyn and the baby. Pages and pages of scribbles weren’t enough anymore. He needed advice, he needed words of empathy and experience from a trusted mate to cherish and remember. And he’d grown to trust Epstein; so far, their manager seemed a man of his word, a decent bloke really.   
  
And as far as John was concerned, Paul needn’t know that John had let Brian toss him off on their last night in Spain; he felt sorry for the pathetic wanker, that’s all. ‘Sides, it had been fucking unmemorable; luckily John had a sinfully vivid imagination, especially when it came to fantasies about Paul’s mouth. Yeah… Brian was besotted with him. But at least now Brian was his confidant and co-conspirator, openly supportive of John’s love for Paul. Course, Epstein might still try to steal a touch or a kiss every now and then. Randy, confused bugger.  
  
“Ya want to brand me then? Mark me as yours when we’re in public?” Paul asked with a sexy smirk, looking up from beneath his heavy bangs.   
  
“Brand ya? If I’d me way, I would ‘ave bought ya the diamond-encrusted collar and leash, but they didn’t ‘ave it in yer size, luv.”  
  
Paul chuckled as he put the bracelet on his left wrist. It was a public token of John’s love and what? Ownership? Commitment?   
  
Shit, this was getting serious. Everything was getting fucking serious. How much bloody longer could they hide this? Touching the silver dangling off his wrist, Paul flashed a bittersweet expression when he looked over at John. John simply drowned in Paul’s dark, wet eyes. And in his brittle heart, he felt Paul slip away, just a little bit further.  
  
“Ya got one more pressie, ya know?”  
  
“Um, yeah — that’s the pressie I’m waiting on ya for, John.”   
  
Paul lied. Bloody hell. Their crotch-ripping birthday blowjob had become a delightfully anticipated tradition by this point. But Paul had already received the most precious birthday gift of all. John had told him what had happened in Spain. And it made sense. John and Brian talked about them, practiced being queer in public, maybe even discussed fucking techniques. Obviously together they schemed to buy nearly matching bracelets for Paul so that he could wear John’s token openly in photo shoots and concerts and shit. Say it’s from your girlfriend! No one will ever know about the hidden, engraved words from John! Fuck. This was fucking insane. But it also meant, Paul hoped, that John really did fucking love him. Paul absentmindedly squeezed the silver links into the flesh of his wrist until they hurt and left a mark.   
  
They fell on the high bed, a staged set that was covered in a crocheted lace throw. Short on time, John immediately got down to business. He wrapped his mouth around Paul’s shaft and sucked slow and hard, taking brief, teasing breaks to coax the boy into ecstatic hysteria. Paul’s fingers got tangled in the bed lace.   
  
Slow, and wet, and crotch-ripping. That was the point of the birthday blowjob, after all. Paul would have trouble walking for while, and John would enjoy Paul’s little fucking party, smiling in satisfaction as his boyfriend hobbled just a bit round the boisterous celebration.   
  
Too bad they forgot to lock the fucking door — again.   
  
Jane slowly opened the door, so quietly that her boyfriend and, um, John, didn’t hear the intrusion. Well, what do we have here? Jane was in the theater, after all. Many of the boys she had worked with since she was a child actress went both ways. She wasn’t shocked, just intrigued — and quite turned on.   
  
They did look beautiful together. John’s face in Paul’s lap, John’s bare ass up in the air, Paul’s closed eyes and parted lips. And then Jane saw it. She saw a bright flash of shiny silver reflecting off Paul’s left wrist, as her boyfriend squirmed and thrashed like a wanton whore on the granny lace covers. He’d put it on; he was actually wearing her gift. So, her beautiful Paul might enjoy a romp with another lad once in a while, but he was proudly sporting her silver bracelet. The one Brian had convinced her would be absolutely perfect for Paul. Apparently, Brian was right. He was a smart man. As she watched John’s hungry mouth slide sloppily up and down Paul’s cock, as she watched John swallow Paul’s crotch-ripping orgasm, she smiled and softly closed the door. Paul was hers.   
  
Catching his breath, Paul’s eyes were clenched shut, his fingers slowly raking through his damp hair. Shit, did he really have to go back down to the party? Fuck. Paul could barely bloody move; his whole body ached and trembled. He just wanted to curl up under these frilly granny covers and feel John spooning his arse. Distracted as he lit a smoke, John bent down and picked up the empty gift box.  
  
“There’s one more thing in ‘ere, ya know. It’s shite, needs work, but I wrote it for ya.” John mumbled, noticeably embarrassed. And so started their new tradition of special love songs exchanged secretly on birthdays. Hand-written of course, on folded pieces of paper to be read and re-read, treasured and stored safely away.   
  
Paul rolled over on his side and snatched the folded sheet of paper out of John’s fingers. He read John’s sloppy words slowly. Fuck… he didn’t know John could write beautiful, sappy shit like this.   
  
“Bollocks! It’s bloody perfect, luv. What’s it called?”  
  
“Dunno. 'If I Fell,' I s’ppose.”  
  
“What’s the tune?”  
  
“Doesn’t ‘ave one yet. Was hoping that ya could help me out with that.”  
  
With wet eyes, Paul leaned up and kissed John’s nose. They’d make this work somehow. They had too.   
  
  
Two hours later and John was fucking shit pissed after way too many whiskeys, and he was bloody tired as hell. Time to get the fuck out of here. He’d barely seen Paul since their birthday cock sucking, and now he just wanted to go home and go to sleep. Where the fuck was was Cyn? John wandered out into the back garden, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. He thought that he saw the blurry blonde blob of Cyn over in the back, but as he tried to get over there, Bob fucking Wooler stepped in front of his path.   
  
Late that warm summer night, at Paul’s 21st birthday party at Jin’s house, Bob fucking Wooler, old friend and DJ at the Cavern, was just as shit-arsed drunk as John fucking Lennon.  
  
And looking for a laugh.   
  
Shit.

 


	15. Chapter 15

_**4\.  Trust each other** _   
  
**1963**   
  


“Hello there, Johnny, my boy! Spare a few minutes to chat with your old dad!” Bob slurred his consonants, slamming them into his garbled vowels, turning his muttering into mushy nonsense. He was shit-faced pissed, staggering to stand still, and he wanted to have some fun. To have a laugh with John, his old mate, the witty lad who had introduced Bob as John’s dad at their first meeting with Epstein.  
  
“Can’t, Bob. Time to go home.” John barked, as calmly as he could, given that Lennon had become fairly sloshed over the course of the evening. Fortunately, he wasn’t consumed with the fury of an angry John drunk, not yet.  
  
Just a tired, frustrated, sucked my boyfriend’s cock kind of John drunk.  Pretty harmless, really.  
  
Harmless, that is, until Bob aggressively slapped both his sweaty palms on John’s chest to stop the exhausted, swaying musician from walking away from the already tedious conversation.  
  
“Don’t be a prick now. You can’t be leaving yet! The party’s not over, lad! You’re not going soft on us, are you?”  
  
John’s muscles tensed, his hands instinctively tightening into clenched fists at his side. After years of childhood brawls, and later in the pubs and clubs of northern England and Hamburg, John could smell a potential barmy from a mile off, and Bob’s tone and body language stunk of it. Odd, though. Not like little Bob to act so stupidly belligerent, especially to a mate and the leader of the star act at the Cavern. Especially peculiar that he’d mouth off to John fucking Lennon. Must have been the booze.  
  
Off in one darker corner of the garden, Brian was chatting politely with one of Paul’s inebriated cousins; Epstein’s eyes darted back and forth between the inane conversation and the bizarre scene playing out across the garden between John and Wooler. Brian couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but he didn’t really need to hear. He quickly recognized John’s hostile posture and darkening facial expression. Fuck, what the hell was Wooler doing? More important, what was good old Bob actually saying to John?  
  
“I’m leaving now, Bob, so fuckin’ sod off, mate.” John was close to snarling, his narrowed eyes and tightened jaw warning Wooler to back off and get the fuck out of his way. The much older DJ broke into sloppy hysterics, bending over with exaggerated snorts as John shoved passed him.  
  
“Ha! Didn’t think you would leave the party, John, my boy — not until you got yourself a generous slice of Paul’s fancy precious cake, that is.” Bob hollered low with a wicked grin, pointing over in the direction of the buffet.  
  
Some three feet away now, working his way into the thinning crowd in the backyard of Jin’s house, John stopped abruptly in his tracks, tossed his unlit cigarette to the ground, and spun back around to confront the pissed arsehole.  
  
 _“Stay calm, John. Stay in control. Remember what I told you. No more fights, John.”_  
  
Brian repeated the mantra, repeated it over and over in his head, as if his rational thoughts could somehow pierce and soothe John’s intoxicated brain.  
  
“What’s that yer saying, Bob?”  
  
 _“Stay calm, John. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t overeact.”_  
  
Epstein expected this would happen at some point, he just didn’t expect it would happen at Paul’s family birthday celebration. He thought that maybe some drunk bigot would say something in a pub, or after a show at some ballroom, possibly — but not here, not at sweet Aunt Jin’s festive home, all decked out with party lights and merry tables of birthday food and gifts. In the pit of his gut, Brian felt that Wooler, smashed out of his mind on drink, had made some snide joke to John about their recent holiday in Spain.  
  
Here it was.  
  
This was the test to see if John could handle some light queer teasing from a pissed mate.  
  
Unfortunately, Brian knew in his heart that John wasn’t ready.  
  
Might never be, Epstein feared.  
  
And, of course, John was also pissed. Not as drunk as Bob though, not nearly as shit drunk.  
  
“I said…” Bob’s voice hushed to a pudding of mangled words as John strode forcefully towards him.  
  
“I said — that I didn’t expect you to leave tonight until you got a piece of Paul — his dear poofter cake over there, you know.”  
  
“What the fuck that’s s’pposed to mean, Wooler?” John smirked back, his growl taking on a vicious, sharp tone. Unfortunately, drunk Bob, just out for a laugh, was too blurred by booze to read clearly the obvious warning signs on John’s face and in his voice.  
  
And old, queer Bob just wouldn’t shut the fuck up. He was having fun, he was!  
  
“Nothing, John. I meant nothing, son. Just didn’t expect you to leave so early. That’s all.” Bob belched loud, slapped his thighs in glee, and laughed again, as John watched the little fucker with growing anger and suspicion.  
  
“Night, Bob.” John suddenly snapped, and started to turn back on his stumbling path to retrieve his wife. He exhaled deeply, trying to relax after the false alarm. His head pounding from too much drink and too little food, John rubbed his temples as he walked away.  
  
“Not that I’d blame a randy lad like yourself, though. Don’t expect anyone would. Certainly not Mr. fucking queer Epstein.” Wooler snickered. Bob had never like Brian all that much.  
  
John marched up to Wooler fast and aggressive this time, towering over him, looking down on Bob’s flat top haircut, his eyes burning into Bob’s pudgy swine face.  
  
“Go on then, Bob. I’m curious to ‘ear what yer going on about.” Poisonous sarcasm dripped from John’s tongue. It was Bob’s last fucking warning.  
  
“What I mean is…. you know… about Paul. Shit, John, I understand — really I do. It’s no big deal. Christ, I’d bend pretty McCartney over and fuck him.” Bob exploded into laughter again.  
  
John grabbed shit-faced Bob by the shirt collar and growled into the DJ’s pale, clammy face.  
  
“Shut yer fuckin’ filthy gob, Wooler.” John’s low, raspy voice was close to bloody lethal.  
  
“I suppose Paul’s bum hole works well , doesn’t it?  And that fucking mouth, for Christ sakes. So tell me, son — can he play bass when he's on his knees with a cock shoved down his pretty throat?”  
  
“Yer a back-stabbin’ twat, Wooler.”  
  
Still clutching Wooler’s damp shirt, John pulled Bob’s face up close to his own, close enough for his spit to sting Bob’s fucking eyeballs. Bob’s collar was starting to choke him; too drunk to really care, the stupid fuck just kept mouthing off, in between cackling snorts.  
  
“You’re not worried about your, um, reputation with the fanbird skirts, are you, John?”  
  
He twisted the older man’s torso like a rag toy, reaching over to snarl privately into his ear.  
  
“Not t’all, Bob. Just defending me best mate, ya fuckin' traitor cunt!”  
  
Bob didn’t even see John’s steel fist until it collided hard with his plump face. If he had been just a bit more sober, John might have controlled some of the force behind his punches. And his kicks. But when he was this tired and pissed, and with Bob’s crude remarks about Paul — well — Lennon just let loose. With far too little sleep, depressed at being an imprisoned married man, jealous over the attention Jane had been receiving all night, John was primed for an attack. He’d been ready, he thought, to handle some stupid fucking comment about Brian and Spain; he wasn’t prepared at all in his mind to deal with this foul crap about Paul — about him and Paul.  
  
Before the damage became too severe, Mal and two other blokes rushed over and pulled John, crazy strong with drink and violent rage, off old, bloody Bob. Given the malice and danger of his scandalous words, Wooler was lucky to have suffered only a smashed up face and some busted ribs. He’d survive, the prick.  
  
 _“Must ‘ave said something ‘bout Lennon going off on that holiday with Epstein.”_    The gossip started by a couple of blokes from the Pacemakers spread through the younger members of the dazed crowd like a rumor wildfire. Huddled together inside, Jim and Jin stood looking out the window at the disturbance, appalled at John’s violent attack in the back garden.  
  
“Bloody ‘ell, lad!  But no surprise though.” Jim sighed with disgusted anger.  
  
Having heard the screams, Brian rushed over to Bob, lying on the grass, bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, holding his side with both hands, moaning and rolling in pain on the ground. Shit, John had smashed him up good.  
  
Another Lennon mess for Epstein to mop up.  
  
“Bob, are you alright? I’m so sorry this happened — not like John at all. Let me take you to the hospital.”  
  
And so ended the garden part of the Wooler incident at Paul’s 21st birthday party on that warm June night. Brian hauled Bob’s beaten arse off to the hospital to get the old boy stitched and bandaged up. His mind racing with schemes to keep noise of the attack to a minimum, Brian began explaining what had happened to Bob, who was under the covers in his hospital bed, slowly turning black blue under the bandage wrappings.  
  
“What happened, Brian? Why did John go off crazy like that?”  
  
Bob lied; even shit pissed, Wooler knew what the fuck he had said. Christ, most people in the Liverpool club scene had suspected something queer was going on between John and McCartney for years. Though still in pain and somewhat sedated, old queer Bob Wooler just wanted to hear Epstein’s fucking public relations spin on the whole episode. Bob figured it might be amusing.  
  
“Bob, you made a tasteless joke about John and our trip to Spain. You know that it was not funny, or true. I know that you were just having a laugh, but your offensive remark upset John very much. He was very, very intoxicated, you know? And he is a completely normal young man, Bob, with a family. He was worried; his wife might have been within earshot. I will cover any costs for this incident, alright?”  
  
Then Brian’s eyes widened slightly, as a more defensive scheme developed quickly in his own mind. It had been months since the band played at the Cavern, but Brian figured that ammunition was still live and quite usefull.  
  
“Let’s put this behind us, shall we, Bob? We don’t want to be forced to cancel any future performances at the Cavern. We certainly do not want to disappoint the local fans, do we? And well, it wouldn’t be good for the club — or for you, for that matter. Let us just say that it was just an unfortunate misunderstanding between two old friends, right?”  
  
“Sure, Brian. You’re right. I understand. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I want an apology from John — a bloody public apology! This is bound to make the papers, after all. ”  
  
There, Bob thought, let that arrogant Lennon prick squirm a bit. And at least that fake teddy boy would have to put up with the false rumor shit about his queer holiday with poof Epstein in Spain. No one would ever know what Bob had actually said, that he viciously mocked Paul and John — no one except John and Bob, and probably Brian too, eventually. Bob suspected that the posh manager queen was completely aware — shit, he was probably tickled pink by the poof shenanigans going on between his two stable boy musicians.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Back at Jin’s house, Neil and Mal had helped John to a chair in a small spare room at the back of the home. Cynthia was hysterical, crying and pleading with her husband to stop drinking to excess. Cyn had heard nothing of the Spain rumor making its way round the party crowd; ever protective Mal made sure of that. John was more than Mal’s mate and tour companion, he was Mal’s idol; Evans would have stepped in front of a bloody bus for the band leader. Slouched in the armchair, John put his hands over his ears, trying to block out some of Cyn’s shrill nagging, and hoping to ease the fucking throbbing pain in his skull.  
  
“What the fuck was that all ‘bout!” Paul shouted, bursting into the room, noticeably much more pissed than anyone else. He was the special birthday boy after all — hair a bit messy, eyelids heavy with booze, silver bracelet dangling loosely off his wrist… but his clothes were still perfect, the dapper bastard.  
  
“Mal, take Cyn to the kitchen for some water, will ya?” John groaned, his voice scratchy and raw. “Oh, and shut the door. Ta.”  
  
Paul marched over to the chair John was sitting in, and leaned down, his legs wobbling just a bit. “Well? C’mon! Why the bloody ‘ell did ya sock the shit out of Wooler, John?”  
  
“Paul…” Neil interjected, “Wooler made some nasty joke about John and Brian in Spain. It was fuckin’ right stupid on Bob’s part. He bloody well deserved it.”  
  
Neil was a good mate — a solid, loyal type — always would be. Paul and John could always count on Aspinall.  
  
“Ya could have fuckin’ ignored him, John! Could ‘ave walked away. But no! And now y‘ave ruined the party, you stupid shit. Me dad’s angry, Auntie Jin and Cyn and Jane are all fuckin’ crying in the kitchen, the little kids are scared shit out of their minds. For Christ’s sake, John…” Paul’s tirade ended with an exasperated sigh.  
  
John slowly rose to his feet, still a bit shaky from the booze and adrenaline. He walked over to Paul, who had moved across the dim room to lean against the window sash.  
  
“Nell, give us a minute, right?” Neil hurried out without a word and closed the door, standing guard in the outside hallway.  
  
“Paul, luv. I didn’t smash Wooler’s ribs in for him over some bloody stupid crack about me and Brian. Understand?” John said the words to Paul too harshly. Much more abrasive than he had intended.  
  
Paul crossed his arms and looked into his boyfriend’s narrow bloodshot eyes, one perfect McCartney eyebrow arched higher in confusion.  
  
“Well, what was it then?”  
  
“S’not important.” John whispered, as he leaned his forehead against Paul’s, exhaustion weakening his voice.  
  
Paul unfolded his arms and reached out to grab John’s shaking hands. They were covered in drying blood, his knuckles slightly swollen. He’d be bruised up by tomorrow morning for sure. Cradling them gently in his up-turned palms, Paul ran his thumbs tenderly over John’s beautiful fingers, one at a time, unable to tear his eyes away from them.  
  
“Shit, luv. Look at yer hands. Christ! Ya didn’t fuckin’ break anything, did ya?”  
  
“Nah, I’m fine. Looks worse than it is, really.”  
  
“So this clobberin’ wasn’t ‘bout some fuckin’ Spain joke?”  
  
“No.” John pulled from Paul’s careful grasp and moved back a few inches, wiping the caked blood off his hands on the front shirttail of his wrinkled white dress shirt.  
  
“Paul, just trust me.”  
  
He leaned forward again and planted a soft, lingering kiss on Paul's drunk lips, licking off some bits of sweet cake frosting still clinging to the corners of Paul’s mouth.  
  
“Mmm — good cake. Happy birthday, Macca. Sorry ‘bout yer party. I’m goin’ the fuck home.”  
  
Paul just sighed deeply and nodded, as John left the room to gather up Cyn and get the hell out of there. The bassist leaned back again on the window frame; his head fell back lightly against the glass as his swallowed hard and sighed.  
  
Not about Spain. Trust him.  
  
“Fuckin’ Wooler.” Paul whispered out loud to himself, two warm tears falling from his eyes, sliding slowly down his flushed cheeks. He drew another deep breath, touched John’s bracelet with his thumb and forefinger, and went off to find Jane.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 _ **5\. Listen to our mates**_  
  
 **1964**  
  


Sitting alone on the scratchy, sea-green carpet in the tiny lounge area of the cheap hotel room, John relaxed in his black T-shirt, Y-fronts and white socks, his legs pulled up to his chest and crossed at the ankles. A glass ashtray on the floor was near full with spent smokes; newspapers were strewn about the room. The low rectangular table next to John was carefully arranged with a dozen unlit candles at one end, three large torches at the other end, and a box of waterproof matches in the middle — emergency items given to them by Neil in case Hurricane Dora knocked the electricity out during the night.  
  
All four musicians had to share two lousy rooms connected by a party door in this shit hole Florida hotel, discovered and booked at the last minute by Brian when their flight was diverted. Fucking hell. Fierce gale force winds were whistling and thrashing through the palm branches outside the rooms, objects ocassionally smashing against walls with loud crashes, creating an eerie, violent soundtrack for the stormy night.  
  
“Ay, whatcha doin’ there, John? Getting’ all prepared like a good scout?” George asked, as he sauntered out of the room that he was sharing with Ringo, wearing a white T-shirt and his striped pajama bottoms.  
  
“Christ, no.” John made a childish explosion sound as he moved one of the candles. “We’re ’aving a battle! Ya see, son — these candle RAF blokes are gonna have to fight those fuckin’ torch Nazis for control of the priceless match weapons. Who ya puttin’ yer quid on, punter?”  
  
“Torch Nazis, of course.”  
  
John looked up at the guitarist with a boyish grin. He adored it when his mates joined in his silliness with him; well, he most adored when Paul mucked about with him, but Harrison was always an enthusiastic playmate.  
  
“Why’s that? They’re fuckin’ Nazis. They ‘ave to lose, don’t they?”  
  
George slowly walked over, munching loudly on a crisp apple. He casually bent down, picked up one of the heavy torch Nazis and easily smashed one of the candle troopers to pieces.  
  
“That’s fuckin’ why, mate. Didn’t think of that, did ya, Major-General?” George smiled widely, apple bits stuck in his teeth; John fell over onto the carpeted floor, laughing his underwear-clad arse off.  
  
“Why the fuck did ya just do that, Geo? We might need that candle later if the bloody lights go off, ya stupid shit!” Paul was on razor’s edge, biting his thumbnails and smoking too damn much, pacing back and forth between the rooms and their puny lounge areas like a caged cat.  
  
John and George immediately looked at each other, eyebrows raised in conspiracy at exactly the same moment, lip corners turned up in wickedness. Paul was in one of his uptight, bitchy tempers; you could either ignore him and it might get better — or you could poke him a bit, push him a tad until he lost it. All for fun, mind you.  
  
“Can’t fuckin’ believe we’re stuck ‘ere in this flimsy shit hotel with a ‘urricane pounding down on us. And I asked Brian and ya know what? There’s no fuckin’ bunker or actual storm shelter ‘ere! Just these bloody paper-thin walls and tin roof. Christ!”  
  
“Worried about the storm, are ya then, Paul?” John asked cautiously, with a chuckle under his breath.  
  
“No! I’m pissed off at Brian’s bloody poor management of this whole fuckin’ situation.” Paul fumed, as he looked out the window glass into the dark windy night, his furrowed brow clearly tense in the reflection. He lit another smoke, the light from the match casting a brief, warm glow over his concerned, breathtaking features. “He should ‘ave thought it through a bit more — should have had a better fuckin’ plan!”  
  
John and George broke into hysterics.  
  
“Christ — that’s so — that’s so — typical McCartney horse shit!” George choked with laughter, sitting down on the floor to join John at his mock battlefield.  
  
“Luv, why don’t ya just change out of that bloody monkey suit, and relax a bit. Not even the great McCartney, plan or no plan, can change the fuckin’ weather.” Despite his desire to have a bit of fun teasing his boyfriend, John was in a gentle mood; and he was trying to keep his mind off the fact that his stomach was churning sick with anxiety over the hurricane. John fucking hated storms.  
  
“Ha! Paul can’t take off his suit, John. What if we’re evacuated, rushed outside unexpectedly, yeah — and there’s a mob of photographers waiting for us in the bushes. Gotta look sharp, ya know! Button up yer buttons, straighten yer tie…”  
  
“Fuck off, Geo.” Paul wasn’t in any mood for George’s ribbing.  
  
Suddenly the hall door to John and Paul’s room was kicked open with a hearty howl.  
  
“I’m back from the front, girls!”  
  
Ringo marched into the room wearing a ragged white dress shirt, a pair of loud Bermuda shorts and bright orange sandals —  a combination of his now worn Beatle suit shit and more relaxed tropical vacation clothes. A bizarre combination, but Ringo pulled it off nicely. His hair blown to one side from the ferocious wind, he was carrying a brown paper bag in one arm, a cigarette dangling from his lips.  
  
“Father’s home from the war! Whatcha bring us? Got any pressies, dad?” John shrieked in his stupid little girl’s voice, rubbing his hands together in joyful anticipation, bouncing up and down on the floor.  
  
“Why yes I ‘ave, darling. But ‘ave ya been a well-behaved, little lass, Johnny?”  
  
John nodded with exaggerated intensity, his smile twisted into a goofy grin. After another infectious chuckle, Ringo slowly lifted two large bottles of excellent Scotch out of the paper bag and carefully placed them down in the middle of John’s battlefield table.  
  
“Pressies from the hotel manager’s private stash, luv! Can’t do much else, can we — stuck ‘ere in this shit hole in a fucking ‘urricane. So then, Pappa Starkey declares…. Let’s get bloody pissed off our heads!” Ringo shouted, not noticing Brian walk in, wearing his carefully pressed, three-piece navy suit. The manager was completely unscathed by the fucking category 4 hurricane that was churning over them, except for Brian’s excessive nervous twitching, of course.  
  
“Having a party, lads?” They all turned to look at Epstein, their faces purposefully blank and expressionless, except for pinched-mouth Paul, who couldn’t act well enough to hide his annoyance.  
  
“Well, alright. That’s fine, just don’t leave these rooms. You’ve got your emergency supplies, right? You’re all sitting tight here, until this storm passes, understand?”  
  
Brian hesitated for a moment when he noticed John had stripped down to his underwear, the delicious bulge of his cock and balls clearly visible beneath the thin white cotton. “Hmm. Yes. Well, then — goodnight, boys.”  
  
And the edgy, well-dressed posh prison warden was gone as quickly as he had arrived.  
  
The naughty band inmates sneered and snickered and decided to make a fucking night of it. Even beautiful bitchy Paul took off his tie and relaxed a bit.  
  
A tour night to remember, this was gonna be. A bloody tropical hurricane and a Florida dive and too much good Scotch and four bored, anxious mates, far far from home!  
  
Just the four of them. And Dora.  
  
No reporters, no photographers, no assistants, no fanbirds, no fucking Eppy.  
  
As he began to pour his mates healthy glasses of smooth, amber Scotch, John suddenly snarled with a wicked smile.  
  
“Let’s play a game, then. Yeah?”  
  
Shit.

 


	16. Chapter 16

  
**_5\. Listen to our mates_ **

**1964**

 

Richard Starkey laughed his arse off uncontrollably, rolling around on the floor next to John’s battlefield table, already nicely pissed after quickly downing two hefty glassfulls of smooth Scotch.

“There’s absolutely no fuckin’ way — that I’m doing _that_ with a candle, Lennon!”

So much for John’s naughty proposition. Game over.

“Ah, yer bloody soft, Starkey!”

Abruptly, George tossed out another suggestion.

“How ‘bout we play another game instead — ya know, tell the fuckin’ real truth, not the horse crap shit that we give the press.” The young guitarist’s face was swiftly dark with seriousness, his deep, handsome eyes focused on John. George could get like this sometimes, brooding and bitter, especially after a bit of drink.

Left alone to their own devices in the middle of a hurricane warning, all four lads were now plopped down on the carpet around the low table in John and Paul’s room of the run-down beach front villa; whistling winds ripped the humid air outside the Florida hotel, as Ringo made sure that he kept his mates’ glasses full with liquid amber. George sat cross-legged at one short end of the rectangular battlefield, Ringo across from him at the other end. It was very late; the hotel bar and small restaurant were closed now due to the storm.

Sitting between them on the floor, backs against the front of the ratty yellow cloth and wicker couch, Paul and John slouched into each other. The fact that John was in his underwear didn’t seem to matter to them. Not one fucking bit. As always, their shoulders and hips were squished in close together, as if the two lads were simply a single, beautiful, complex animal.

Paul had nonchalantly bent one knee, allowing his trouser-clad leg to brush against, and then barely rest on John’s naked thigh. Even though Paul was getting a bit too bold by sort of putting his knee on John’s bare thigh like that in front of Geo and Ringo, John didn’t dare flinch or protest… Paul’s familiar touch, even through the fabric, felt so incredibly fucking comforting, especially with a violent storm whirling outside.

Fortunately, the booze had helped to relax beautiful, bitchy McCartney; his tie was now unknotted and draped loosely around his neck, the top three buttons of his white dress shirt undone, shoes kicked off in a corner, along with his black dress socks. Ever since he’d been a young lad, Paul had always preferred to go barefoot. As the dark-haired bassist sat there, casually leaning into John’s warmth and skin, he wiggled his toes, watching them curl up tight, and then unfold leisurely in a wave.

Curl up and unfold. Curl up and unfold.

Lost in a lustful fantasy, Paul was reminded how much he fancied shrimping. Especially on those rare occasions when Lennon actually took off his fucking socks. Christ, Paul had delighted in sucking on his boyfriend’s toes ever since he first tried it in Paris. He looked down at those white socks on his lover’s lovely feet, and imagined peeling them off, with his lips and teeth, slowly. Maybe later — before a nice warm bath.

Without warning, John snapped Paul out of his fetish reverie.

“How’s yer game work then, Georgie boy?” John shifted his weight slightly and retorted sharply, his eyes slightly narrowed with suspicion behind his thick lenses. In John’s empty stomach, the fire of the good Scotch was burning slowly.

Lennon wasn’t too keen about the caustic tone in George’s low voice.

And Harrison didn’t give a fucking shit.

“Ya want to go first, John? Alright then.”

George took another slow swallow of his drink, and reached down for a cigarette, lit the smoke, and took a long, deep drag.

“So… ‘ere’s me question for ya. We’ll be lucky if we last another couple of months, eh? Before the bubble bursts and all? That’s what ya said back at that fuckin’ press conference, Lennon. Is that true? Is that what ya really think, John?”

For weeks now, George had been anxiously mulling over John’s often repeated humble bullshit — the self-effacing crap that the band leader threw at the prying reporters everytime they asked that fucking stupid bubble question. But what if John really did believe it? What if this success was no more than a short gig, a bloody laugh of a distraction to amuse Lennon? What if they all had to go back home at some point, and find real fucking jobs?

What if John just quit the band, and fucking left one day? Off to find more insane, more risky adventures.

“Just repeatin’ what I’ve been told to say, Geo. What’s expected and all. You know that, son.”

“So ya don’t believe it then? That we’ll be finished as a band by year’s end?”

“Dunno what I believe, ‘arrison. But, might keep yer scrawny arse ‘round long enough for me to get fuckin’ rich! If yer lucky.” John’s smiled weakly, although his growling words were starting to slur from drink, nerves and aggravation.

Through the dark cloth of his suit trousers, Paul felt John’s leg muscles tense up. This little truth game of Geo’s could go off in very dangerous directions pretty fucking quickly. And they were trapped in these bloody isolated rooms in this beach shack, with no real escape from one another, as long as Dora threatened to unleash her destructive forces over the Florida peninsula.

Yeah, this game had to stop. Time for another McCharmley intervention. Fuck. Paul sighed in exasperation.

“Ay, Geo! Daft fucking game, mate.” Paul chuckled softly, and then switched quickly to his breathtaking, wide-eyed, boyish expression.

“I need ya to check on me acoustic, Geo. Something’s wrong with one of the strings or other.” Paul shifted to get up, removing his knee from his boyfriend’s thigh, much to John’s regret; a welcome break from George’s bloody depressing inquisition, though.

_Ta, Macca. Get fuckin’ Harrison’s scowlin’ gob out of me sight, luv._

“Take a look at it for me, will ya? C’mon, mate. Let’s bring me guitar over to yer room, and you’ll figure out the problem straight away, I imagine.” Paul gave George a subtle wink of conspiracy. Intrigued by the slight spark in his childhood friend’s eyes, Harrison quickly agreed. McCartney was up to something much more interesting than this little fucking truth game. George could smell it.

As the two youngest musicians left the small lounge area in John and Paul’s room and closed the connecting door behind them, Ringo and John settled back, pouring themselves two more glasses of delicious liquid relaxation. They were out to get shit pissed, and they were already well on their way.

“When did yer dad leave ya, Richard?” John blurted out of nowhere.

“Um? Was probably three — maybe four. Not sure really, John. Why’d ya ask?”

“Just curious…” John took a swig. “I was five fucking years old, the lousy arse of a cunt.”

“Ah, ‘bout the same then. Better off without the cowardly tossers, I s’ppose. Don’t ya think, John?”

“You have a mum, Ritch.” John took another large mouthful of Scotch, his eyes watering up with tears. “A right good mum at that.”

Over the years, the visceral pain of abandonment by both his parents had never fucking dulled, not even a little bit. Probably never would. Especially since Julia had discarded the accidental child — at least twice.

“All I know is, I better never lay me eyes on that fuckin’ bastard again.” John was still smarting from the unexpected reappearance of good ol’ hapless Alf earlier that spring. Showed up on his fucking doorstep — invaded his privacy — his bloody home.

John was quiet in thought for a moment. And that should be the end of this miserable conversation, Ringo sighed. On to happier topics, like skirt chasing, or memories of playing the clubs in Liverpool, or heavy boozing.

Or so Ringo hoped.

John lit another smoke.

Lennon was getting pissed fast, as usual. John’s drunk was like an oncoming train. You could see the fuzzy lights off in the distance, and you knew it would be wise to get off the fucking tracks, but still you stood there, mesmerized and amused, until the charging locomotive ran you the fuck over.

John took a loud, deep breath.

“He’s gonna leave me too — walk out at some point.”

“Huh? Who, John? Ya’ve lost me, son.” Ringo laughed, with concern now cracking his voice. This was bloody weird, Ringo thought, as he glanced at John’s face out of the corner of his deep, blue eye.

Fuck. Was John gonna cry? Shit.

“Paul. Macca’s gonna leave too someday.”

“Bollocks! Paul’s not going anywhere. He loves playin’ in yer band, John. Most dedicated bloke I’ve ever met.”

And at that moment, for whatever fucking reason, Lennon decided to break contract rule number three. Break it with poor, pissed Ringo, who, by this point on their second American tour, had pretty much already figured out that the old club rumors were true — that John and Paul were actually queer for each other. Too much touching, too much bizarre staring — regular blokes didn’t fucking do that, Ringo decided. And, sometimes, those bloody hushed sounds, escaping from their hotel room at night and in the early mornings. Shit.

“Can I talk to ya ‘bout something — something private, Richard?”

John took another large gulp of drink.

“Um, yeah. Sure, John.” Ringo swallowed his own Scotch with unease.

“It’s ‘bout Paul and me. It’s different between us, ya know, Ritch. We’re… we’re close.”

“John, we really don’t need to talk ‘bout this.”

“I need to fuckin’ talk about this, Starkey!” John inhaled a deep drag off his smoke, letting the white cloud rise up over his head, trying to stay calm. It was no use, though. The tears were too fucking close to the surface now.

“Anyroad, he’ll be gone at some point, Ritch. He’ll find something better. Someone not as fucked up.”

“He’s… Paul’s very fond of you, John. I can see that with me own eyes.”

“Yeah? Lovely.” John took a quick breath, snorting with aching anxiety. Ringo stayed silent.

“Well — I’m completely fuckin’ in love with him, Ritch.” John closed his pissed eyes behind his glasses, his head starting to spin from the booze and his own pounding pulse.

“Me marriage — Christ, me whole life’s a fuckin’ lie, ya know?”

“Bloody nonsense, mate! Cyn and Julian are great! Listen, John. Does Paul know that ya feel this way?”

John smiled at his older, gentle mate with obvious strain.

“Yeah. He knows. Doesn’t matter much, though. Pretty fuckin’ sure I’m not part of his long-term plans, ya know.”

The tears started to slide down John’s face. John was well past the point of being able to stop them, booze or no booze.

“There’s no place for me in Paul’s world of how it should all fuckin’ turn out in the end — settled in a posh house — his perfect kids playin’ on his perfectly tended lawn. No bloody room for me in that plan.”

John took another drag off his cigarette, in between soft sobs that he was helplessly trying to hold back, as he sucked on two fingers, his chin cradled in his palm.

“Never ‘ave had a plan of me own, though, Richard. S’ppose I’m just trying to hold onto… just trying to store away memories of what I can ‘ave today, s’all. Filing away all these pictures in me ‘ead — all these bloody words — for when it’s gone — for when he’s gone, and they’re all that I’ve left.”

Ringo had no fucking idea what to say, as his heart broke for his sobbing mate.

“John, luv, things are good. And things between you and Paul seem very good, s’far as I can tell. Fucking try to enjoy some of this… this insane, and likely bloody short ride that we’re on, huh?”

Now Ritch was crying, not gasping with choking sobs like John, just a few bittersweet tears. How the hell did Richard Starkey get to this exact fucking moment in time — in Florida, on a ritzy tour, in a bloody hurricane, wearing orange sandals with a tacky flower appliqués, well bloody pissed, with these two confused, brilliant blokes! Thank shit for Geo, even when he was being a grim, sarcastic twit and all.

While John was breaking rule three, and Ritch was doing his best to comfort the bespeckled, drunk confessor, Paul and George were having a bloody hell of a good time in the other room.

“So, what’s really going on ‘ere, Paul? Broken guitar string, my arse! Ya don’t need me ‘elp for shit like that anyroad.”

“Ssh, got a joint for us. You know — while the old geezers are pickling their livers. Let’s ‘ave a laugh, Geo! Been too long.”

“Yer brilliant, ya sneaky fucker.”

They both flashed their most wicked young smiles, breaking into laughter as Paul took the first drag, passing the joint to his old friend, his former best mate.

Harrison was still a best mate in so many ways, though.

Without the snogging and shagging, mind you.

When they were nearly finished with the smoke, George clasped his hands over his head and stretched.

“Shit, Paul. This is all so bleedin’ unreal — this tour and everything.” George sighed deep, as Paul stubbed out the small last bit of the joint.

“Don’t go all sour on me now, Geo! We’re ‘aving a laugh here, yeah?”

“Yer right, mate. Yeah. Ready to face those two wankers?”

“No, but not much of a choice. Where we gonna go? Swimmin’? Clubbin’?” Paul’s regular laugh had turned into an infectious cackling giggle.

Shit. Paul bloody loved pot. Endless laughs, mindless chatting, mind spacing, not to mention the fucking intense horniness!! Fucking shit must have been invented just for brilliant, randy McCartney.

After a few more minutes, the two sniggering, stoned musicians tumbled back through the connecting door into the lounge where John and Ringo sat, hugging each other, crying their fucking eyes out by this point.

Christ.

Noticing their younger mates in the doorway, the older two musicians moved back and quickly shifted to sniffling laughs, lightly punching each other in jest.

“Everything alright ‘ere?” Paul barely choked the words out, unsuccessfully suffocating his stoned snorts. George turned his gaze away, afraid to collapse in a fit of laughs on the floor, biting his tongue in desperation.

“Fine. Just sharing old war stories, luv.” As he brushed off his wet face with the sleeve of his black T-shirt, John regained some of his composure, except that he was swaying a bit, and still fucking shit pissed.

“Yer fuckin’ stoned, you twat, aren’t ya! Not divvying the loot up tonight then?” John barked, with a forced chuckle.

“There’s more grass. Don’t fret, mate.” The delightfully slow appearance of Paul’s goofy, stoned smile, like some mythical metamorphosis, melted John’s heart into a puddle.

“Good. There’s more Scotch too. So why don’t you two birds get yer arses over ‘ere and join us. Get right shit fucked!”

Hours later and fucking everybody was bloody well stoned and drunk, as minor waves of Dora continued to swirl on the other side of the flimsy windowpanes. Paul and George had collapsed on the floor in side-splitting giggles against a wall, all nonsense and tears of laughter. Shit, they did still have a fucking great time together, those two.

“Ya did what to ‘er? Christ, Geo! You’ve become a bloody sex beast!”

“That I ‘ave, McCartney!”

“I’ve never even done  _that_ shit, Geo!”

“Well, listen ‘ere, Paul — mate…” George leaned towards Paul, and lowered his voice a bit. “It was no fuckin’ dark alley behind a porn kino in Hamburg, ya filthy lad!”

“What the fuck did ya just say, ‘arrison?” John could barely sit straight up. But his hearing was still quite fucking good.

Shit.

Paul and George froze in the middle of a laugh, faces fluttering in half-stoned smiles. What the hell did George just bloody blurt out, the stupid git? Something about Paul in an alley. In Hamburg?

John slowly raised himself up on his wobbly legs, his features crunched in a mixture of shock and fury. It was one of John’s many drunk faces — and not a good one.

“What was that ya said, Geo?” John slurred badly, as he staggered over to the two reclining lads. Steadying himself with his hands pressed against the wall, John looked down on his mates, each of his shaky legs planted in front of their crotches. He could kick them both in the balls, if need be.

“John… George knows, alright?” Paul tried to coo softly, holding back a snort.

“Ya fuckin’ told ‘im, didn’t ya, Macca! I though we ‘ad an understanding!”

Now George was getting angry. He didn’t care for bully John — not one fucking bit. Reminded him of when his older brothers would gang up on him, in a not so playful barney. Harrison looked over protectively at his childhood mate. Paul had closed his eyes, shut himself down a bit. He’d been doing that more often lately, George noticed.

“Paul didn’t say a bloody word, John. I saw you and ‘im, with me own fuckin’ eyes. In that alley one night. Wearin’ those cheap cowboy boots, John. Huh? Yeah, fucking marvelous that was.”

George took a deep, labored breath.

“John, I’ve known about you and Paul for bloody years, ya daft shit.”

Paul cautiously open his dried, red eyes, and looked up at John’s face. Fuck, John looked bloody angry.

“S’no big deal, John, luv.” Ringo chimed in with a silly face, trying to lighten the mood. “Guess what, Geo? I know too!”

Paul grabbed John’s calf, sat forward and peered around his boyfriend’s leg at the intoxicated drummer.

“What! How the fuck did you find out, Ritch?”

“Don’t remember, really. Oh yeah — John told me.”

Paul shot his eyes back up crossly at John, whose sloshed, gorgeous face was rapidly turning a scary shade of grey-green.

“Oh, Christ! Move, Geo! Now!” As George dove to one side, Paul lept to his feet, ripped John’s glasses of his face, and hauled his boyfriend’s pissed arse into the loo. Half a bottle of Scotch — maybe more — filled the toilet as John wretched up the contents of his stomach, while Paul held on to him, stroking his trembling back.

“Bloody 'ell, Ritchie! Lennon nearly chucked on me head!” Harrison cried out with childish giddy laughter.

“Always ‘as been a fuckin’ feeble boozer, the taffy poof.” Ringo whispered with a naughty grin across the room to Geo, who then doubled over in a fit of tearful hysterics.

“Ey! Geo! Give me a ‘and, will ya!” Paul grunted, trying to drag John’s half-limp, mumbling body across the room. “Just get ‘im onto the bed.”

After dumping the babbling bandleader onto a mattress covered with tropical flower bed covers, Paul and his two mates moved the festivities next door. Paul left the shared connecting door open just a tad to keep an ear out for him, make sure John was alright in his pissed stupor.

The three remaining party soldiers sat on the chairs in the other small lounge, smoking and gulping down the last of the booze. As drink, and pot, and time passed, Paul cried about fucking everything — from his first schoolyard beating, to his mum’s death. Then Paul puked his fucking guts out.

George just puked.

Ringo didn’t chuck at all. Took much more than this pansy excuse for a bender to get his arse kneeling in front of the porcelain throne. As dawn approached, all three became quiet, content to enjoy the thrashing concert of the distant storm.

“So, yer not gonna act odd or strange ‘round us, are ya? Yer not gonna be all awkward with me?” Paul finally asked quietly of his mates.

“You think  _we_  should be the ones actin’ awkward, do ya?” George snorted dryly.

“Fuck off, Geo!” Paul huffed. “Pass me what’s left of that joint!”

“I must say, me lad, you are quite a dutiful caretaker! And I’m afraid, son, that ya've got one high upkeep patient there, Nurse McCartney.” Ringo bellowed in a mock posh accent — a really poor accent.

“Yeah.” Paul sighed with a smirk. “Got quite a bit of practice over the years lookin’ after ‘im, mate.”

“Yer gonna ‘ave to look after that madman for a long time, Paul. He’s not gonna change.  John’s not gonna stop being, well… John. That’s a weight you’ll ‘ave to carry, mate.” George usually got to the point with Paul, often quite sensitively. Sometimes, not.

But Paul always listened to George’s wise words, even when Harrison thought he didn’t.

“But we’ll be ‘ere, Paul. When ya need ‘elp with this… this situation, ya know?" Harrison added with his own crooked wink.

“I know.” Paul starting biting his lips for control; he wasn’t gonna fucking cry again. Shit, he adored his mates. “Got a smoke?”

“He’s much better when yer around, Paul. And he really loves ya, ya know? Told me so himself.” Ringo replied tenderly.

Paul’s eyes fell to his hands, his fingers absentmindedly squeezing and rubbing one another. He whispered soft and low.

“I love him too. More than he’ll ever fuckin’ understand, Ritch.”

Paul looked up at his mates from beneath his dark bangs, his lids heavy, his brown eyes wet and bloodshot. Shit, he was tired. He couldn’t utter another syllable about this... this whatever it was that bound him and John together.

“I’m fuckin’ knackered. It’s nearly five in the morning. Off to bed then. Night, lads. Or morning, s’ppose.”

Paul returned to his room, and carefully crawled onto the bed. To his shock, John wasn’t unconscious. Close, but not quite there, still mumbling incoherently now and then. Beautiful eyes still slightly open, looking like crimson slits in the sand.

“Fuck, me head.”

“Hush. Here, get under the bed covers. Go to sleep now, luv.” They had the day off tomorrow. They could sober up, snuggle and spoon the whole fucking morning away in this tropical paradise. Until Epstein and the press showed up, that was.

Paul kissed John’s soft hair as the guitarist rolled over, away from Paul, and groaned in drunk exhaustion. Clumsy stupid by this point, John could only pull the thin covers up to his waist before he passed out cold. Paul leaned over, propped up on one elbow, and watched John sleep. Christ, that boy got fucking pissed off his arse too often.

No toe sucking tonight.

Paul lifted the bottom of John’s black T-shirt and ran his fingers across John’s pale side and over his torso, but not so much as to tickle him. In the dim rosy light of dawn, Paul just needed to touch John’s smooth skin, caress his flesh and muscles; the feel of John’s beefy solidness always reassured and grounded the smitten, striking bassist.

Soon the tour would be over and they’d be home — living separate lives again. John with his accidental family in the dreary suburbs; Paul running around the hip clubs with pretty Jane in naughty London. There’d still be some moments together after the tour, working and laughing at the recording studios and their song writing sessions, but those moments never seemed to be enough anymore.

It was fucking getting harder.

As Paul’s eyes began to close on him, he inhaled the salty smells of the ocean air and the quieting storm. He leaned down one more time, and drank in the familiar spicy scent of John. At least, for tonight, this was real. They were real.

After he stripped off the remnants of his suit, he scooted his lean, naked body under the covers, lightly wrapping his left arm around John’s waist. Paul mused that he would probably never forget this fucking crazy night on their triumphant US tour.

Even when things got really hard…

which no doubt they would…

he’d remember this bizarre, unforeseen Key West layover.

Paul had always expected that this thing with John had to end — someday. There wasn’t any possible future. It was illegal, for shit’s sake.

“Sweet dreams, luv.”

Paul nuzzled his perfect nose into John’s thick neck, and quickly drifted off into foggy fantasies of his boyfriend’s delightful feet and mischievous shrimping.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**_6\. Don’t be a jealous prick_ **   
  
**1960**   
  


The dark city streets were slick and shiny from the light spring rains that had been sprinkling Liverpool all day and well into the early evening. The air was still warm but damp as John pulled Cyn in a bit tighter, practically lifting up the compliant bird to keep stride with his quick, deliberate steps. Glancing back over his right shoulder, he saw Paul and Dot holding hands, swinging their arms, and smiling with the ocassional teenage cackle. John drank in the sight of his best mate — tight dark trousers, a crisp white T-shirt and black leather jacket. Paul’s hair was getting longer, too long on humid nights like this to stay piled up in his greased quiff. Thick, dark-brown locks flopped over, bouncing up and down over the boy’s forehead as he bound along to keep up with John’s fast pace.  
  
The boyfriends caught each other’s attention for a lingering moment before John finally diverted his bespeckled gaze back foward, away from that hypnotic sparkle in Paul's golden-streaked brown eyes. For all Paul’s wooing and cooing, John was pretty confident that Paul never gave his pudgy-faced, naïve girlfriend that particular look of fire and devotion. John relaxed and sighed, as the couples approached the theater.  
  
"So what are we seein’ tonight, luv?"  
  
"An old classic, John, and my favorite, Casablanca."  
  
That fucking bird picture again. John rolled his eyes, with a mischievous smirk. Right. Let Bogart help warm Cyn up for him tonight, again.  
  
A night at the pictures had been Cyn’s idea. The double date with Paul and Dot had been her suggestion too. It was just that John was sweeter to her, more genuinely attentive, when Paul was mucking about with them, though Cyn hadn't figured out exactly why that was.  
  
It just was.  
  
Since his girlfriend was paying, as usual, John didn't give fuck what film they saw. A night at the pictures was about the snogging and groping after all. Not with Paul’s perfect, luscious mouth though. Not tonight. Fuck. John already pined for their cozy oasis back at Bette's pub, although he and Paul had only been back from Reading for two days now, the few bob they'd made already spent on pints.  
  
For his part, Paul thought that he was hiding his jealousy pretty fucking well tonight, though John's possessive squeezes and exaggerated pecks to Cyn's head shot painful jolts through Paul’s sensitive gut every time he saw those conspicuous gestures of affection. For this evening, Paul decided, he'd just look away, try to ignore them. But he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting over to look at John — cream-colored trousers, blue checkered button down shirt, brightly-striped school scarf, and brown wool jacket. The outfit was a bit mismatched and outrageous, but John pulled it off, as always.  
  
 _"Cor, he looks good."_ Paul sighed to himself, as he turned back around after paying for his and Dot's tickets. As Paul's heavy-lidded eyes absentmindedly fixed on his mate’s lips, his balls ached with the delightfully vivid memory of being sucked and licked and nibbled by John’s generous mouth. Paul hadn't been able to stop thinking about that first nose-nuzzling blowjob up in the snug spare room at Bette's; worse, Paul couldn't stop fantasizing how it might actually feel to take John's hard, hot cock between his own virgin lips. Shit, he was now bloody obsessed with the idea of sucking off his boyfriend to delerium, controling the untamable guitarist with only his mouth, just as John had done to him that first night on their recent holiday adventure.  
  
Paul had been daydreaming about giving his first blowjob during breakfast just this morning, as he mindlessly pushed his food about on his plate with a fork, even blushing once in front of his confused father; nearly all fucking day at school, he’d stare off into the distance and imagine the feel, the taste of John in his mouth. Christ, he'd even acted so boldly as to scribble a sinful stick-figure sketch in the back of his notebook during math class — John sprawled on his back, trousers bunched around his ankles, willingly obedient to Paul’s hungry tongue.  
  
It was a control thing.  
  
But no bloody chance to put his lustful fantasies into action since they'd come home from their Nerk Twins gig. John had convinced him that their lonely, needy birds required some attention. Bloody hell.  
  
As the four took their seats at the back of the dim, nearly empty theater, Paul readjusted his half-hard prick in his trousers. Dot noticed.  
  
"Paul, you naughty boy!" she giggled in a whisper to his ear.  
  
At first terribly shy and timid, and quite besotted with dangerously handsome but unavailable John, young Dot was pretty quick these days to give herself to any request from her dark-haired, seventeen-year old boyfriend. Paul had after all decided to date her exclusively, for whatever reason Dot had no idea. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as possessive Paul. And Paul bought her gifts and clothes for no real reason, though his jealous nature, she had discovered, could be rather explosive.  
  
And randy Paul hadn't even asked her to suck him — ever. That was odd, she thought. Later tonight after the pictures, she’d suck him off nicely, Dot decided…. whether he asked for it or not. And then maybe she’d also tell him that she’d skipped her last menstrual cycle and was already late this month. Shit.  
  
The girls sat down next to each other, while John sat next to Cyn on the left, Paul to the right of Dot. The lads had discovered a few times back that a Lennon and McCartney sandwich was the best seating arrangement for double dates at the pictures. They could snog their birds and fondle their tits, while still swapping lusty eye-fucks with each other. And, as long as they managed to get seats in the back, they could rest their non-groping arms over the tops of the seats, nearly almost touching their fingertips. Well, sometimes they did touch briefly, if they were a bit pissed. Randy lads.  
  
Not more than 10 minutes into the black and white WWII classic, John made his not so subtle moves on Cyn, who was enraptured by the romantic story that she'd already seen nearly half a dozen times. As John pulled Cyn's small frame close to him, he cupped her face with his strong right hand and expertly guided his tongue down her throat. Cyn had long ago learned to relax and let him tongue-fuck her senseless; resisting his demanding mouth only made him more forceful, less caring. Besides, he was an amazing tongue kisser, skillfully caressing her mouth to dizziness.  
  
Paul took moment to watch his boyfriend French kiss his girlfriend, as Dot lightly sucked on Paul's neck. He saw John suddenly decide that Cyn’s hand needed to be rubbing the hardening bulge in John’s tight, light trousers. Paul watched as Cyn would resist and pull her left hand back, shaking her head no with a coquettish chirp — and tenacious, randy John would just grab her hand again, and stroke his ever-hard nineteen year old shaft with her squirming fingers. Not much of anything John ever did was particularly subtle, Paul chortled to himself.  
  
Pulling back and grabbing and rubbing and pulling back again, all the while John snaking his tongue around Cyn's limp, submissive mouth. The scene — the sloppy snogging noises — were driving Paul bloody crazy with lust and jealousy. Lennon’s talented tongue should be down Paul’s throat, for shit's sake! Between his own throbbing hard on, and sharp stabs of envy and heartache, Paul felt his control slipping. A whole day’s worth of cock sucking daydreams hadn’t helped either.  
  
He had to get out of there.  
  
This wasn't easy anymore. It was not as easy now to watch John adore and seduce someone else, not like that. Not after their perfect Nerk Twins holiday.  
  
Shit, he was bloody falling in love with his best mate. It had to be something more than lust, more than the secret thrill of illegal snogging and mutual wanking. Sharing John was slowly tearing Paul apart, even if it was just sharing him with plain, safe Cyn. What if John decided to offer his practiced tongue to that fucking Sutcliffe wanker? Give artsy poof Stu a nose-nuzzling blowjob? Paul realized that he was becoming jealous of everyone in John’s life.  
  
The slim seventeen year old pulled back from Dot’s meak mouth, and moved to jump over the back of his theater seat.  
  
He had to get the fuck out of there and collect himself.  
  
“Where are you going?” Dot whispered.  
  
“Need a smoke, luv. Stay ‘ere, alright?”  
  
“Paul, the film just began.” Dot complained weakly to Paul’s back as he hurried out of the theater, but not before John jerked his tongue out of Cyn’s mouth when he noticed the tense expression on Paul’s face.  
  
Out on the street in front of the theater entrance, Paul stood under an overhang and inhaled deeply on his cigarette in the misty night air. His beautiful features were noticeably pained from his blue-balled jealous aching.  
  
“Fuckin’ borin’ film, huh?” John nudged Paul’s leather clad elbow from behind as he joined him on the dark, wet street.  
  
“Nah, s’alright really. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ Shit, John. I wanna run off to Paris. Fuckin’ anywhere, really. Get the ‘ell outta here, ya know.” Paul scratchy voice cracked slightly.  
  
“We just got back, ya git. From that brilliant hitchhikin’ escape ya planned.” John chuckled, as he nicked a smoke from Paul’s pack in his jacket pocket.  
  
“Yeah. Was bloody brilliant, wasn’t it? Still wanna leave this shit hole anyroad.” It was getting colder; John buttoned up his jacket and tightened his scarf. Paul didn’t seem to notice the night chill.  
  
“We will get out. Not time yet, s’ppose. But we will, luv. Trust me.” John said softly as he finally lit his smoke, leaning into Paul’s rigid shoulder.  
  
Despite his natural tendencies towards cynicism at times, John was always optimistic about their future. He and Paul would get out of Liverpool together. The band would make it, whatever band that bloody was. Somewhere they’d hit it big together. He was sure of it. London, possibly.  John couldn’t imagine breaking out of this cage without Paul.  
  
Suddenly, Paul huffed sharply with frustration, flicked his spent smoke to the damp pavement, and spun back inside, leaving John standing there on the street, alone in his thoughts. Paul could be a temperamental, prickly arse like that sometimes.  
  
Off to the left side of the corridor that led back to the theater was the loo; Paul popped inside to splash some cold water on his face before returning to the girls. And to check his hair in the broken mirror.  
  
Shit. Paul’s cheeks were burning up, and blotchy red. He couldn’t take this much longer.  
  
Back out on the wet street, Lennon slowly finished his ciggy, mulling over just why his beautiful boyfriend’s knickers were in such a knotted twist. Fucking being a jealous twat again, John reckoned. No matter though. John was more than in the mood for some bird licking tonight. Paul would get over it. He’d have to. They had girlfriends to fuck and keep content, the daft tosser. John opened the heavy door, threw down his smoke, and strode down the poorly lit hallway towards the theater seating. Back towards Cyn’s too willing, peppermint-flavored gob.  
  
As he passed the door to the loo, Paul stepped out into the corridor, aggressively blocking John’s path. The boy’s face was flushed and damp, his dark eyes filled to the brim with palpable urgency.  
  
“Quick snog before we go back to the birds?” Paul purred assertively into his mate’s sideboard, his scheming mind racing, his knees already wobbly in anticipation. Paul had worked himself up into a right lustful frenzy.  
  
Delighted with Paul’s delicious offer, relieved at Paul’s apparent change of temper, and hungry to taste his moist mouth, however briefly, John smiled broadly; without a word, he followed his band mate back into the empty loo, into the farthest stall along the back wall. Nothing unusual really. They often stole quick, unlawful snogs in public restrooms.  
  
Once the stall door was locked, Paul immediately pushed John up against the sidewall, shoving his own warm tongue into John’s ear, nibbling on his earlobe, forcefully rubbing his swollen crotch against John’s already hard prick. Ah, a full-contact, wrestling snog!  John’s bloody favorite kind. As John tried to grab Paul’s face, as he tried to take and overpower Paul’s mouth with his lips, the younger boy grabbed both of John’s wrists and crossed them behind John’s head.  
  
“Yer gonna sit down, luv. Sit yer gorgeous arse down on the lavvy. Now.”  
  
Paul wasn’t fucking around tonight, John recognized, as his eyes narrowed with enchantment at his boyfriend’s harsh, seductive command. Paul snatched John’s lips with his own as he pushed John back and down towards the toilet, forcing his boyfriend’s knees to buckle, forcing John’s arse to plop down on the bowl. Despite his still young and lanky frame, Paul was bloody strong, especially when his entire body was lit with burning lust. And he was strong most especially when his much stronger best mate got bloody turned on like mad by Paul’s thirst for sexual dominance. Tonight, Paul was more aggressive than John had ever seen him in almost two years together — and John liked it. Shit, he fucking loved it.  
  
As Paul brashly tongue-fucked John's moaning mouth, standing over him, pressing down roughly on his lips, his left hand slipped under the waistband of John’s cream-colored trousers. John might have perfected the nose-nuzzling blowjob, but Paul’s talented, nimble fingers were unmatched, even when restricted by the fabric. As he writhed under Paul’s rough, stroking teases, John’s head fell back, hitting the tiled wall. Fuck! Reaching up to rub his sore skull, John froze in delighted surprise as Paul unbuttoned John’s trousers and slowly lowered his breathtaking face down, hovering a few inches above John’s bulging crotch.  
  
“I’m gonna suck you dry, luv.” His mouth opened in astonishment, John had no chance to respond, before Paul jerked his boyfriend’s cream trousers and Y-fronts all the way down to his ankles in one swift move. Paul lifted up both of John’s bound legs by the twisted fabric, and then ducked underneath to place himself in between John’s legs, over the older boy’s pulsing cock.  
  
“Shit, Paul. I don’t want yer mouth for first time in a fuckin’ theater loo! Squattin’ over a filthy toilet!”  
  
“Too fuckin’ bad, luv. Can’t wait 'nother second!” Paul growled as he stuffed one end of John’s scarf in his boyfriend’s gaping mouth. “No noise though. Some old codger might come in.” Paul lowered his lips to barely an inch above his throbbing obsession.  
  
“John…” Paul whispered. “Just watch me, and lemme enjoy this. And let’s see how quiet you can be, baby.”  
  
John silently succumbed, and leaned back slowly, avoiding another crash with the dirty white tiles, as he braced the soles of his now raised, ensnared boots against the grey steel walls of the stall, while his trembling hands clenched the sides of the toilet rim. Leisurely, Paul took John’s prick between his soft, warm lips, and noisily sucked and swallowed him, humming and slurping and moaning until the hall door to the loo opened with the echo of heavy footsteps. Shit. Undeterred, randy Paul simply pulled his mouth off John and changed his technique to slow, silent licks, while John tried desparately to hold back his panting groans. Stay quiet! And the pipes from the fucking toilet were digging sharply into John’s back. Fuck.  
  
  
  
“I wonder where the boys are?” Dot leaned over to Cyn, and asked sweetly.  
  
“Who knows! Welcome to my world, luv.” Cyn snapped back without even looking at the naïve teen, annoyed at the interruption and mesmerized by the grainy war film.  
  
  
  
Fuck, Paul loved this control, as his tongue ran up John’s thick, pulsing vein. To drive his boyfriend more insane, to have complete power over John’s entire quaking body, Paul began to alternate from long, soaking licks to soft breaths, quietly blowing puffs of warm air up and down John’s wet, ultrasensitive throbber.  
  
The interloper was piddling about, taking his fucking time to piss in the damn urinal!  
  
Just piss goddammit! Get the fuck out!  
  
Beads of sweat were dripping down John’s forehead, into the fur of his sideboards, down the back of his neck. He bit down hard on the scarf wool. John thought his balls would simply crack and explode right there, all over the walls of the toilet stall, if he didn’t get some release, immediately! The minute the old fart washed up and left the public loo, Paul looked up at John and winked— teasingly slow — and then quickly engulfed John’s cock completely with one obscene suck — and John came his bloody fucking brains out, screaming muffled profanities into the scarf gag, as waves of pleasure ripped through him, his legs shaking, arms trembling.  
  
After Paul fearlessly choked down his first ever mouthful of warm cum, John spit the scarf out and grabbed him by his thick hair, roughly dragging Paul’s face up to his own, devouring Paul’s wet mouth, licking off trace drops of himself on Paul’s swollen, reddened lips.  
  
Apparently control over John only lasted so long.  
  
“Yer bloody fuckin’ fantastic.” John moaned, and chuckled softly between breaths, in between fierce kisses to Paul’s lips. “Yer gonna do that again. But — somewhere a bit — less grotty — next time, alright?”  
  
A few splashs of sink water, and less than five minutes later, and the two lads were sauntering happily back to their theater seats. Well, not exactly. Paul sat back down next to Dot as before, but distracted, goofy John jumped into the empty seat next to Paul. Cyn just shook her head, rolled her eyes and sighed, got up and walked all the fucking way around to sit in the open seat next to her grinning shit of a boyfriend.  
  
Before he could settle into his seat, Dot gently pulled Paul’s face towards her and kissed him on the mouth.  
  
“I missed you. Paul, luv? Are you smoking a different kind of cigarette? You taste — different.”  
  
“Huh? Um, yeah. Some cheap French fags.” Paul had no fucking idea where that line of rubbish came from.  
  
“Oh, I see.” Dot giggled.  
  
Silently she mused how Paul’s new continental smokes tasted a hell of a lot like salty lad batter. Not that she’d tasted much of that in her short sixteen years — only once really, when Lennon had seduced her into giving him a blowjob backstage at their second meeting, a few days before she found out about Cynthia and before she actually met Paul. Shit, Paul’s mouth tasted so familiar.  
  
Grinning like a fool next to cum-flavored Paul, John was soaring high in post-orgasm euphoria, as he grabbed Cyn for a quick peck. He’d fuck her silly. Later, after the bloody picture.  
  
Keep everybody happy.  
  
As John leaned back and rested both of his muscular arms across the backs of the adjacent seats, he sighed with delight in the fact that he had his sweet, submissive bird to one side, his lusty beautiful best mate on the other. Right perfection. He rested his head back against his seat, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep for the remainder of the fucking bird flick.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1964**  
  


It had been a little over a fortnight since their Key West hurricane diversion before the band got another extended break from the madness that was their second American tour. Here, on millionaire Pigman’s ranch in the Ozark Mountains, wherever the hell that was, they celebrated Brian’s 30th birthday with over-spiced barbeque crap and cans of piss-tasting beer. Too much nasty American shit beer, John realized, as he rolled over with a groan in bed. Pigman had insisted that each Beatle get his own spacious guest room for some well-deserved rest and privacy. But the rich bloke’s generosity meant that John, once again, hadn’t had a chance to fuck Paul. Christ, he hadn’t had any real time alone with him for the past four days!  
  
Covering his eyes to block out some of the sunlight seeping in from the windows, John was still pretty raw from that three-hour, grueling ride on the back of that mangy beast. No, not Paul… the fucking ranch horse, a disobedient nag nicknamed ‘Blaze’ that the inexperienced guitarist had just yesterday been unceremoniously hoisted up on by some toothless ranch goon. No one had told him he shouldn’t bloody smoke and drink on the fucking four-legged piece of dog food; apparently old Blaze resented his city Scouser arse before she’d even left the saddle-up area. Nag must have run him into every thorny branch in fucking America, John supposed. Shit, he was sore.  
  
Now John found himself alone in bed, awake for some unknown reason, at eight o’clock in the goddamn morning!  
  
 _“Where the fuck am I?”_ He whined to himself, as he combed his fingers through his messy, maple-brown locks, half-open eyes darting blindly around the unfamiliar ranch guest room. With an annoyed grunt, John wandered out in his pajamas into the common area just outside his room. Maybe Macca was up early. On one side of the room was a long, cloth-covered table was laden with various American breakfast treats… a real feast for a starving cowboy. But John didn’t even recognize half the greasy slop shit on the table, so he grabbed a glass of juice and lit a smoke.  
  
Just then, smiling birthday boy strolled in, wearing the queerest fucking cowboy get-up John had ever seen.  
  
“See yer fittin’ right in with the bum-fuckin’ country jokels, Eppy!”  
  
“Good morning, John. I rather like this dandy attire. What do you think of my new hat?”  
  
“I’m not answering’ that, ya fuckin’ poof! ‘Oi, where’s Paul, anyroad? Still sleepin’?”  
  
“Well, it seems our darling, brave Paul got up bright and early, at seven o’clock mind you, to try his hand at another trail ride before we leave the farm tonight. Seems our boy fancies being in the saddle.”  
  
“What? He didn’t go out alone in those woods, did he? The fuckin’ loon!”  
  
“Oh, no! Not alone by any stretch, John. Paul has a professional trail companion — an authentic American cowboy! I was up early, of course, and I saw them leave together. He was escorted by that striking, blonde ranch worker from yesterday. You remember him, don’t you — the tall, strapping lad with the chiseled features and the piercing, light-blue eyes?” Epstein was enjoying this dude ranch shit just a bit too much, John growled silently.  
  
“Yeah, I remember ‘im.” John chuffed with disgust, sucking in another long drag on his smoke.  
  
Less than two miles away, Paul was rambling through a sun-drenched field at a slow walk atop his gentle gelding mount from the day before — ‘Hickory’, or something or other. He couldn’t remember. The rhythmic pace of the horse’s gentle footfall was bloody perfect for his creative musical juices, a melody unwinding itself in his blissful mind as he softly whistled. Maybe he’d finish the tune in time for John’s upcoming birthday. His tranquil mood was certainly helped too by the fact that he was stoned as shit. Perfect vegetarian brekkie before a trail ride, he hummed. His friendly guide rode ahead of him, pointing out the scenery, on his personal horse — a striking, muscular palomino stallion. The blonde cowboy, not the fucking dude horse.  
  
“Reckon we should take a break soon and let the ponies drink, Paul. There’s a creek up ahead. That O.K. with you, buddy?” Paul had asked blue-eyed cowboy Ben to call him Paul, not Mr. McCartney, as the bloke had politely done at their first meeting. Shit, Paul was probably the same age as this yank lad. Maybe even younger.  
  
“S’alright with this ‘ere cowpoke, partner.”  
  
Paul’s phoney Texas accent was dreadful. And he was in rural Missouri for shit sake’s, not traversing down the dusty Oregon Trail with John fucking Wayne, the daft twit.  
  
As the horses quenched their thirst in the cool mountain stream, Paul and cowboy Ben relaxed under a shade tree on a smooth boulder by the side of the watering creek. From his button-down shirt pocket, Paul pulled out a pack of cigarette papers and a pouch of tobacco that Neil had picked up for him in Dallas. Good practice for rolling joints, Paul figured. Carefully, the dark-haired English lad placed just the right amont of tobacco in the crease of the folded paper, rolled it up, and then licked the edge to seal his homemade smoke. He had another small bag of grass in his trouser pocket, just in case the opportunity for a giggle should arise.  
  
“Wow! You roll yer own? Didn’t think guys from Europe did that.” Ben inquired, with a crooked smirk.  
  
“Yessiree, partner.” Paul lazily smiled back from underneath his dark, felt cowboy hat, his metal bracelet sparking in the sunlight.  
  
Ben shook his head with a chuckle at his companion’s stale movie cliche. Shit, terrible mock accent or not, this Paul guy was incredibly beautiful, with those long, dark eyelashes and that pretty, full mouth. His thick, black-brown hair was a bit long, but the part of it that Ben could see sticking out from underneath the cowboy hat sure was shiny and clean. Like a girl’s hair, all prettied up for a dance. Watching Paul’s wet, skilled tongue glide along the edge of the cigarette paper sent a wave of craving through Ben’s stiffening groin. No wonder all those teenage girls screamed.  
  
 _“I wonder if he — naw, reckon not. Must be cause he’s English.”_ Ben pondered silently. Sure, Ben was married to a really nice girl and expecting his first kid in a few months, but Ben still played around with boys once in a while. Secretly. Out on herd drives. Or in that hidden back room in Pigman’s barn. No fucking way he was going to get caught with his dick up some tight butthole by old fucker Pigman, though. Hadn’t been caught by the hard-nosed, son of a bitch yet!  
  
“Got a special kinda smoke with me too, for laughs, ya know, if yer interested.” Thank god Paul had finally dropped his half-assed Texas impression. Ben much preferred the musician’s sexy, singsong Limey accent.  
  
“Interested? Hell, yeah! We grow that special kind of ‘tobacco’ all over the place here in the Ozarks, Paul. Spark it up, buddy!”  
  
With an enticing grin and a seductive wink, Paul put away his regular cigarette and pulled out his bag of grass. All over again, Ben got to watch Paul and his fuckable mouth twist and lick a hand-rolled cigarette. Shit, pot made Ben horny as all hell, especially with this beautiful English guy’s joint licking show. Ben pulled out a flask of fine, home-distilled grain alcohol from his jacket pocket to wash the pot down with, of course.  
  
A short time later, and two joints all but finished, and Paul and Ben were having a right great time, chatting about life on the millionaire’s lavish ranch, about girls and families, about fucking everything. Paul bloody loved to talk, especially when he was stoned and a bit pissed.  
  
“So yer wife’s havin’ a baby then? You must be thrilled, mate!” Paul snorted, batting his lashes uncontrollably. Shit, Ben was bloody fucking handsome. Those high cheekbones, those eyes, the way he spoke with that cowboy drawl… fuck.  
  
“Reckon I will be real happy — once she has sex with me again.” Ben roared, doubled over in a fit of giggles.  
  
“So whatcha do to, um, pass the time while yer waitin’?” Grass always loosened up Paul’s lips, encouraged him to say things he really shouldn’t say out loud. The high-proof moonshine didn’t help either.  
  
“Honestly? Mostly pretty boys, like you. There’s herds of lonely, horny guys roaming from job to job round these parts. Great sex, no bullshit strings attached. And it’s not like I’m really cheating on my Debbie. You know what I mean, buddy?” Ben’s steel blue gaze pierced Paul’s deep brown eyes, sending a slight, chilling shiver down Paul’s spine.  
  
Well, this was it. Ben clearly wasn’t a cop. The cowboy was just another handsome young man that went both ways. And there was no one around within miles out here in the forests of the Ozarks. Just Paul and Ben, and joints and moonshine — and the secret truth.  
  
 _ **Don’t tell anyone… ever!  
  
No snogging other blokes!**_  
  
Shit.  
  
Back at the ranch house, John was getting restless waiting for Paul to return from his sunrise trail ride. Ringo, George and Neil had tried to convince the agitated bandleader to join them in go-cart racing and popping off a few rounds on Pigman’s shooting range, but John couldn’t be bothered. Where the fuck was Paul? He’d been gone for over two hours now. Having taken a long, hot shower, shaved and changed into jeans, a short-sleeved striped shirt and cowboy boots, John decided that the only thing he fucking like about all this cowboy shit were the boots. And Paul in that bloody sexy hat.  
  
Frustrated as all hell, John began to grow even more suspicious about this ranch bloke escorting Paul through the Missouri woods, showing his boyfriend the sites from the rocking backs of horses. Fuck. Raging insecurities began to churn like typhoon winds in John’s empty stomach.  
  
“Maybe he’s back, out in that bloody barn, rollin’ around in that fucking horse crap he seems to fancy so much.” John wondered, quickly deciding that a quick check of the barn was in order. But when he got there, nothing but a few old nags muching on their breakfast hay. Fuck.  
  
A calico barn cat emerged from between the nearby hay bales and strolled lazily over to John’s feet, tail raised and twitching.  
  
“Hello there, pussy. What’s yer name.” John was a fluffy, mushy sap when it came to purring cats, especially really pretty ones. He squatted down to scratch it’s jaw and stroke the cat’s back. A shadow suddenly blocked some of the light streaming in from the wide, open barn doors.  
  
“Found a furry friend there, did ya, luv?” Paul laughed.  
  
“Where the fuck have you been!”  
  
“Out on a trail ride. Didn’t Epstein tell ya?” Paul face was plastered with a shit-eating grin, as he carried a leather bridle over to the wall by the saddle room. His slightly bow-legged, staggering walk made John notice the brown leather chaps strapped to Paul’s legs.  
  
“What the ‘ell are those things yer wearin’?”  
  
“What? These? Ben said they’re riding chaps. They’re for protectin’ yer legs from those thorn bushes out on the trail. Got a fuckload of thorn bushes ‘round here, don’t they? Glad I had ‘em. They’re pretty comfortable. Shit, wished I ‘ad ‘em yesterday though!”  
  
John stood up, crossed his arms, and leaned back against a stout wooden barn pole, distrustfully watching Paul as he draped the bridle over a hook. Those fucking leather chaps straps looks good though, John thought. They accentuated Paul’s delicious round arse. Went nicely with that bloody hat too.  
  
“Spent all mornin’ with that good-looking blonde wanker from yesterday, did ya?”  
  
“Don’t be a jealous prick, John. Would ya ‘ave rather I rode out there by meself — got lost or something?”  
  
“It’s the riding the chap part that I’m bloody pissed off about.”  
  
“John, Ben’s a nice bloke. Friendly lad, and a bit of a pisser. Had some laughs. That’s all.”  
  
“So ya didn’t fuck his cowboy arse over a rock, or under a tree, or on the bloody horse, or something?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Suddenly Paul turned around to face his mate, his giddy stoned mood now darkened, his beautiful face tightened in anger. “But that reminds me, luv. Why don’t you fuckin’ tell me what actually ‘appened in Barcelona, John?”  
  
Shit.  
  
Paul always saw through John’s lies. His boyfriend was fucking terrible at hiding his true feelings, even when John tried to mask his face with that frozen, expressionless look. Paul could see in John’s eyes that he hadn’t heard the whole truth about Brian and that fucking holiday in Spain. Realized it back when John first bullshitted him at Paul’s birthday party at Auntie Gin’s house.  
  
John sighed, and looked down at his boot toes.  
  
“Nothin' important ‘appened, Paul.” John paused, drawing a deep breath. Paul’s perfect eyebrows clenched with doubt and jealousy. “Alright, I did let 'im sort of toss me off, on the last night in Barcelona. OK? That was it, nothin' more.”  
  
“Bloody ‘ell, John.” Paul started to storm out of the barn, but then stopped suddenly in his tracks and spun back around. Shit, those leather chaps framed the bulge of Paul’s denim-clad package too.  
  
“Ya were never gonna tell me, were ya?”  
  
“No, I wasn’t. Didn’t see the point in hurtin’ ya, or pissin’ ya off, over something so trivial as a meaningless wankin’ from an old, pathetic poof.”  
  
“And that was it? Nothin’ else?” Paul growled, as he walked quickly up to John’s leaning body.  
  
“Nothin' else ‘appened, Paul.”  
  
Paul snaked his fingers through John’s freshly washed, maple hair, and pulled him forward for a deep snog. Lost for a second in the pleasure of Paul’s pot-flavored lips, John quickly pulled back, pushing his palms against Paul’s chest.  
  
“Christ, luv! Anyone could walk in ‘ere. Yer bloody stoned!” John chuckled. “Does this mean that ya forgive me?”  
  
“We’ll see. Oh, and I’m a bit sloshed too. Ever had moonshine?” Paul snorted with a wink. “Ben said there’s a room hidden back ‘ere in the barn somewhere. Come ‘ead.”  
  
Paul pushed open an old, creaky door at the far end of the barn underneath a rickety staircase. It was a small space, partly filled with more bales of hay, a few farming tools and some ancient, discarded horse blankets. Paul walked in first, looking around the secet cowboy arse-poking spot, with John close on his heels. John shut the door behind him and turned the old, iron lock shut. The room was barely lit by streams of light dribbling in through the vertical spaces between the partially rotten, closed window boards. It was warm, and dark, and smelled like a mixture of horses and hay and sex. Before Paul had a chance to fully turn around, John tackled him to the soft, grass-covered floor.  
  
“I’m finished with those fuckin’ nags. I wanna ride a cowboy, luv. Keep the fuckin’ hat on, yeah? And let’s save these chaps things too.” John growled, as he practically ripped off Paul’s shirt, nibbling and sucking on Paul’s nipples, licking a line down the center of his torso to the path of dark hair that disappeared under Paul’s waistband.  
  
“Fuck — John was gonna take control. Hmm, bloody perfect!” Paul moaned to himself, one hand trying deparately to keep the felt hat on his head. Paul squirmed a bit and kicked off his boots with a couple of swift moves as he awkwardly pulled John’s T-shirt up over his head and threw it towards the door. Christ, Paul was so bloody horny, completely ready to surrender his body to John’s lust and power.  
  
“Ya think yer arse is raw from that trail ride? Wait til I’m finished with ya, darlin’” John snarled into Paul’s quivering abdomen.  
  
The auburn-haired guitarist moved his face down to Paul’s legs, untying each one of the thin leather straps that bound the heavy chaps to his lover. Then he ran his right hand up to the top of Paul’s jeans, undid the button, pulled down the zipper, and pulled his boyfriend’s trousers off. Teasingly slow, John ran his wet, talented tongue up the inside of Paul’s hairy, naked thighs, retying the leather straps tightly as he moved up to the dark-haired lad’s aching, stiff cock, now framed like a piece of art by the leather. Alright, John like cowboy boots, hats and these fucking sexy chaps strapped to Paul’s gorgeous legs!  
  
Slowly John took Paul’s yearning prick between his thin lips and down his throat, sucking him with squeezes of his tongue and cheeks, scraping him gently with his teeth. When he finally felt Paul twitch and hitch in anticipation of his release, John pulled his mouth off, enveloping Paul’s cock with the fingers of his right hand, caressing his nob, rubbing the pad of his thumb in tantalizing circles against Paul’s sensitive slit. Minutes later, Paul groaned, as quiet as he fucking could, and blasted his shot into the rough palm of John’s warm, waiting hand.  
  
With Paul’s cum juice cupped like treasured ambrosia in his right palm, John stood up and grabbed an old blanket with his other hand, throwing the worn cloth over the closest bale of hay.  
  
“Get up on yer knees and bend over this block thing, luv.”  
  
It took a few second for John’s words to register, but dazed Paul finally dragged his trembling body up, silently obeying the silky sound of John’s coarse demand. And there Paul waited, on his quaking knees, bent over the cloth-covered hay bale — the side of his face pressed into his squished cowboy hat, his naked, round arse up in the air, decorated by dancing spots of sunlight, outlined by the curving edge of the leather chaps. Fucking perfection.  
  
John rocked back on his cowboy boot heels, unzipped his jeans and pulled out his aching throbber. Slathering his thick shaft with the gooey lube of Paul’s precious cum, John impaled Paul in one powerful stroke. It wasn’t how Paul preferred first penetration, but it was what John fucking wanted. What John fucking needed after hours of jealous anxiety. The leader’s powerful thrusts were hard and ferociously deep; Paul could barely catch his breath between the pounding, intoxicating aches of pain and excruciating pleasure. His lover 's cock rubbed his sensitive prostate over and over, until Paul’s prick grew stiff and pulsing. John wrapped his cum-sticky hand around Paul's waist and stroked Paul’s reawakended throbber as his own explosive orgasm grew closer.  
  
“Ya gonna cum again for me, luv? I want yer balls completely fuckin’ empty.” John growled into the sweaty hollow of Paul’s spine. Paul could only nod slightly, as he whimpered into the dark felt of his cowboy hat. Less than a dozen forceful thrusts later, and they both exploded nearly at the same time with orgasms of pure cowboy ectasy. John’s hot, huge load soon began to ooze out of Paul’s arse, slowly dripping down the backs of Paul’s shaking thighs. After hours on the trail, and two back-to-back, mind-fucking-blowing orgasms, Paul couldn’t move a bloody muscle. John shoved his cock back in his jeans, zipped up and pulled his striped shirt back on; he planted a sloppy kiss on Paul’s well-fucked bum and stood up to leave.  
  
“Goin’ out for a smoke. S’ppose I shouldn’t light up ‘ere with all this dry hay shit ‘round. Don’t wanna burn down Pigman’s barn, do I.” John laughed stupidly, unlocked the door and was gone. All Paul could manage to do was mumble incoherently into his hat, frozen in place, permanently bent over the hay bale in delerium.  
  
Out under a big shade tree, leaning up against the wood hitching post, John lit his cigarette and took a long drag as he smiled contently. From nowhere, Harrison ran up to his band leader.  
  
“Oi, John! Where’s Paul? I wanna see if he’ll race me in them go-carts once more before we leave. Beat Ritch last time, and Nell too! Gonna beat Paul’s fuckin’ arse this time, mate!” George bounced up and down in his boots, excited and anxious to find a new racing competitor.  
  
John wasn’t exactly sure what Geo had seen that night in that dark alley in Hamburg, but he was pretty bloody confident that he'd been the one on the receiving end of a knee trembler, taking it up the arse from Paul. Bloody hell — right time to enlighten little Georgie about who actually ran the fucking show.  
  
“Macca’s in the barn. Bet he’d love to fuckin’ race ya, son. He’s in a small room at the back, on the left, under the stairs. Can’t miss ‘im, Geo.” John barked, with the slightest of a wicked smirk.  
  
“Ta, John!”  
  
John leisurely finished his smoke, as George ran enthusiastically into the barn. Less than two minutes later, the young guitarist came storming out, eyes cast shamefully to ground, occasionally lifting them to give John a lethal, cold glare.  
  
“Yer a fuckin’ cunt, Lennon. Sendin’ me in there to see Paul — to see ‘im like that!”  
  
“Paul was the cunt this time, luv. Good luck with yer race. I’m puttin’ me quid on ya.” John snorted, as he turned and strolled back to the main house, quite fucking satisfied indeed.  
  
Now all he needed was a good, strong cuppa. Soon it would be time to leave crazy bloody America, and get the hell home.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**1965**

 

Letting out a long, tired sigh of satisfaction, he buried his whole face into the back of his dozing mate’s gorgeous, messy nest of hair. Soft and silky, he hummed in silence and slowly he inhaled, drinking in the mixture of scents:  
  
sandy coconut  
  
clean shampoo  
  
whiffs of musky aftershave  
  
whispers of smoke  
  
Bloody fucking intoxicating.  
  
Before his mind knew what his hands were doing, his fingers snaked their way through, and then tangled in his locks, pulling thick clumps of silk to his perfect nose. Rubbing, and nestling, and inhaling. His cheeks, his lips, caressed by that amazing velvet hair. Paul wished he could fucking die right there on that isolated stretch of beach, thousands of miles from home, tossed about in a sea, drowning in waves of amber honey curls.  
  
Shit, Paul loved the way John’s disobedient auburn hair twisted itself up into natural corkscrews in these muggy climates; reminded him of his boyfriend’s curly locks the way they used to be — way back when before the moptop crap — in the drizzly mist of that golf course in Liverpool. Sweet youthful memories of light rain and twisting fingers caught in soft greasy curls, his back pushed up against the hard bark of the tree. Sloppy teenage snogging. That was the day, on that fucking golf course, Paul realized, that he first surrendered, and jumped headlong into Lennon’s rabbit hole.  
  
His aching, naked body loosely wrapped in the light blue blanket they brought with them on their late afternoon beach escape, his eyes still closed in contentment, John groaned lazily at the tickle of Paul’s face nuzzling the back of his head. The satiated guitarist collapsed farther back into Paul’s warm, possessive embrace. The gentle curve of the sand dune cradled and concealed the reclining lads like an armchair, in blissfull comfort and clandestine invisibility.  
  
“Quit snottin’ all over me fuckin’ ‘ead, will ya.” John’s rebuke was gentle, and deliciously raspy from too much pot.  
  
Paul chuckled softly, as he stole another deep breath of John’s rich amber locks.  
  
“Mmm, luv. I thought ya were kippin’.”  
  
“So ya thought ya’d just molest me poor innocent hair while I was sleepin’, then. How many fuckin’ kinky fetishes do ya ‘ave, Paul?”  
  
With another loving laugh, Paul sucked hard on one of John’s rogue curls, pulling his well-fucked boyfriend even closer against his T-shirt clad chest, wrapping his hairy forearms around John’s pale, thick body even tighter. The dark-haired young man slowly opened his stoned eyes halfway, his eyelids drowsy with pleasure and exhaustion.  
  
Late afternoon was drifting into the muted light of dusk.  
  
“Bloody beautiful sunset, wasn’t it?” Paul whispered with a lethargic smile into John’s fragrant locks, matted down in places with clumps of sand.  
  
“Yer bloody beautiful, luv. And that was quite a mouth-waterin’ fuck, I might add.”  
  
“Hmm, yeah. Brilliant idea of yers to sneak off for a bit of playtime on the beach. I love ya, ya know?”  
  
“Love ya too, Paul.” John’s sigh dripped with happiness.  
  
Their tropical sunset reverie was almost over. Streaks of crimson red and orange-purple barely lingered over the cloudy, deep-blue horizen, reflecting off the gentle ripples of the calm ocean, flickering over the relaxed features of the two lovers.  
  
Never got old or dreary or predictable, John mused. Easily bored with most things in life, John never tired of making love with his brilliant partner, his secret boyfriend, for seven fucking years of his life now.  
  
John had decided that he would never tire of making love with Paul, particularly in hidden sand dunes, huddled away covertly on a beach in the Bahamas. With a bottle of wine, and fat Macca-rolled joints, and no one else in the fucking world around to interrupt the two of them. Just the hypnotic light from the setting sun, and the lulling sounds of the waves, and the rustling of sea breezes through the tall beach grasses.   
  
And, John smiled. He would never tire of making love with his brilliant partner when Paul seduced him like that with his luscious mouth and talented hands.  
  
When Paul pulled him down like that into the warm, white sand, stripped him of his shirt and jeans, lifted his hips.  
  
When Paul fucked him breathless like that, with loving, honest passion. Deep and slow. Kissing and nibbling John’s begging mouth with every intense thrust into his body. And John’s legs, shaking, wrapped around Paul’s back, squeezing and releasing in time with Paul’s pounding rhythm.  
  
Christ, that was beautiful. Pure fucking perfection. John smiled, as his wiggled his well-loved arse back against Paul’s squishy, spent balls.  
  
  
Groaning a deep sigh of exasperation, Mal leaned back against the palm tree.  
  
“How much fuckin’ longer is this gonna take?” Neil complained with a grunt, as he turned to his bulk of a companion.  
  
Wearing his cheerful, goofy smile, Mal just shrugged. “Dunno. ‘Nother game of cards, mate?”  
  
Both old friends thought that this was getting fucking tiresome. Minding these two musician mates of theirs when those two went off on one of their little escapades. But Brian insisted. His boys needed bodyguards and this was sometimes part of the sidemen’s crazy jobs. Neil and Mal needed to deal with keeping away the press and the fans in these situations; they were trusted conspirators. John and Paul must have protection. Brian was bloody adamant. Fucking hell. Least this filming nonsense was almost over, Neil sighed, as Mal starting dealing the playing cards, again. Neil checked his wristwatch, again.  
  
  
  
With a deep, satisfied groan, John rested his head back against Paul’s right shoulder and lifted his face for a kiss. Gently cupping his firm jaw, he traced light patterns with his calloused thumb on John’s warm, sun-freckled cheek. Paul leaned down, licking his boyfriend’s dry lips lightly until he separated them, allowing Paul’s tongue to slip in and dance around the inside of John’s pot-flavored mouth. As they tongue-fucked each other, the two satisfied lads moaned in unison, a harmony of devotion that no one else could ever hear. A private, illegal melody sung for each other on that island paradise.  
  
“There’s a bit more wine left. Want some?”  
  
“Nah, I’m fine.” John hummed with his eyes half-shut. “Can ya freeze time though, luv? Let us stay right ‘ere in this place — in this moment?”  
  
“Yer goin’ bloody soft on me. What will the world think? John arsehole Lennon, the hopeless romantic Beatle? The scandal of it all!”  
  
John snorted and pulled a contorted face, waving his two-finger salute up at the colorful sky. “I’m soft for Paul McCharmley! Sod the bloody world, fuckin’ wankers.”  
  
“Ah, there ya are, Johnny. Cor, thought ya'd been switched with some poof actor double.” Paul laughed softly, as he slowly lifted John’s chin with two fingers, sliding his teasing tongue back into his boyfriend’s waiting mouth. The darkening ocean air was getting chillier; Paul readjusted the blanket more securely around his shivering band leader.  
  
“We should ‘ead back. S’gettin’ cold, isn’t it?” Paul whispered between gentle kisses.  
  
“I don’t care if I freeze me fuckin’ balls off. This right ‘ere — this is perfect. Now gimme those lovely lips back.”  
  
“Mmm…”  
  
“Fuck, yer delicious.”  
  
"Yeah? Mmm..."  Paul moaned with a soft snort.   
  
“What’s gonna ‘appen, Paul?”  
  
“Um. What, darlin'?“  
  
Paul pulled back suddenly, looking down with stoned confusion into John’s piercing, pleading green-brown eyes.  
  
“Where do ya come up with this shit, John?”  
  
“Dunno. Just fucked up, I guess. Paul, tell me.”  
  
“What’s gonna ‘appen? We’re scheduled to be home in a couple of days, start workin’ on the next album, finish up the movie filming, start plannin’ for the next tour…”  
  
John rolled his eyes, his lips twisted in a sarcastic smirk.  
  
“Fuckin’ tosser! Ya mean down the road and all, John? The  _future_  future? Well, we’ll always write tunes together. I’m sure of that. And the band will tour a while longer. And you and Cyn ‘ave Julian. Maybe ya’ll ‘ave another kid. S’ppose I’ll marry Jane, ‘ave me own family, buy a ‘ouse with a big lawn, ya know. Fuck, I don’t wanna… I dunno what’s gonna ‘appen, luv.”  
  
Paul looked away as his voice trailed off, his eyes and his heart searching the fading light of the beach for an answer. He chewed on his lower lip, not knowing what else John wanted to hear — not knowing what he himself wanted to hear. Not knowing what he should say, not knowing really what he should want. Fuck.  
  
“Shit, John. I dunno. We’ll start on the next album when we get back to London. S’all I fuckin’ know for sure.”  
  
“Sounds bloody tit borin’. You’ve no other plans then? For the future?” John asked flatly, with a tinge of heartache, finally sucking down the last gulp of wine, trying to disguise the slight break in his voice.  
  
“No, no plan. Not really. Just the contract, John.” Paul lit a smoke, taking the first drag slowly, lost for a moment in thought.  
  
“And we’ve only got seven things written down, John. Should come up with a couple more. I mean… well, since everything’s different now. Not the skint Nerk Twins anymore, are we? So, got anything ya wanna add, luv? Cause I’ve been thinkin’….”  
  
“For shit’s sake, Paul! Give that a rest, and lemme have more of that sweet mouth of yers.” John snarled, jerking the lit cigarette out of Paul’s hand and sticking it in the sand. He roughly grabbed a fistful of Paul’s thick hair in frustration, dragging his face down to John’s open mouth.  
  
“Mmm, John.”  
  
“Hmm. I love ya, Paul.” John groaned, peppering Paul’s moist lips with deperate kisses, entwining his fingers tightly through Paul’s damp locks.  
  
Fucking just enjoy the moment, Lennon. Enjoy this, right here with Paul. Remember this.  
  
“Love ya too.” Paul practically choked with infatuation, lost in the taste of John’s mouth, the feel of his rough fingers tugging at his hair. “Shit, I’ll love ya forever, Johnny. No matter what ‘appens, I’ll love ya.  
  
“Now that’s the Macca plan I’m lookin’ for, darlin’. Put that fuckin’ one in the contract, yeah?”  
  
As Paul’s young, tender heart cracked, he chuckled with a forced smile over John’s greedy, needy lips. John noticed. Paul didn’t know what the hell he wanted.  
  
Fuck.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1966**  
  
The express train rumbled along the tracks towards Paris, rocking back and forth, swaying a bit as it turned corners through the darker tunnels on the noisy tracks. The rolling rhythm was lulling Neil to sleep, his head cradled comfortably in the fancy high seat rest. As he faded, he thought about his fellow traveler and old mate sitting next to him. The guitarist’s face was buried deep in another newspaper, eyes squinting slightly behind his round wire glasses, pen ready in his fingers.  
  
John looked so different now, with his short Gripweed haircut and those NHS spectacles. He’d lost weight too, more trim now. Still the same fucking pain in the arse Lennon, though, Neil chuckled to himself. And still brilliant, Neil mused. Just yesterday he’d played Aspinall a new, fucking amazing tune about memories of Liverpool or some shit on his acoustic. Bloody brilliant bloke, Neil smiled.  
  
Neil couldn’t think about John without thinking about Paul. Christ, he’d always known, from the minute he saw his old school mate and Lennon hanging out together after school, staring into each other’s eyes like lovesick birds. Shit, he remembered catching a glimpse of Paul drawing pictures of something naughty in his school notebook during class one day. As far as Neil was concerned, Paul had always been in love with John. Just the way it was. It worked. Always had. Getting to really know Paul’s boyfriend, getting a glimpse of John’s gifted insanity, that was the real treat for him on this mad adventure. Neil reckoned that he’d always adore the both of them, equally, no matter what fucking happened. Neil slipped into slumber, trying not to think too much about the future.  
  
As Neil slowly drifted off to sleep, John took another gulp of his drink, letting it slowly burn down the back of his throat. Papers were full of the same old shit. No interesting bits about the band this time. That had to change, John decided.  
  
Neil was asleep. Good. John could finally look at them again. He carefully opened his black leather travel bag, clutched by his side, fishing around inside quietly for the bound stack of papers. Ha, gotcha!  
  
Letters from Stu, given to him by Astrid back in Hamburg. Letters Sutcliffe had written but never posted, when the pain was debilitating and kept the frail lad from walking down to the post box. Or perhaps Stu had just forgotten. Shit. John opened and unfolded the letter on the top of the stack, one he’d read and reread nearly a dozen times by now.  
  
 _John,  
  
It’s me again, your old shit friend Stu. Mucking about here with Astrid, trying to finish my fucking studio projects on time. My portfolio is in terrible shambles, but who cares. How’s the band? Still waiting for your big hit record, darling! Shit, I miss you, John. Lonely here in Germany, though Klaus and his mates are trying to help me behave like more of a proper, tight-arsed Kraut and all. Everything’s great with Astrid, but we still don’t have a date for the wedding. Not in a rush, either of us. Did I tell you I got that university scholarship? I think I did in the last letter, but it’s really great, isn’t it? How’s everyone back in old Liddypool? I hope the important things are going well. I expect they are! You’ll be back to Hamburg soon, Jurgen told me, so we can talk together over pints. I want to hear everything. Cheers until then, mate! Tara!  
  
Stu_  
  
  
The important things. John closed his eyes, holding back a painful sob. God, how John missed Sutcliffe — missed his loyalty, his unabashed honesty. He folded the letter back up, as his eyes drifted to the indistinct blackness racing by outside the compartment window. With much of the exterior light blocked by another dark tunnel, the reflection of John’s anguished face was crisp, as if the window glass was a mirror. John barely recognized himself. He had curly forelocks like he wore as a lad, merging with short, razor-cut strands that ran down his neck. Christ, he looked younger and older, at the same time. And his new favorite, metal-wire glasses. Shit, he could see clearly nearly all of the time now. Paul hadn’t changed, though. Well, he had. Just not that much in how he looked. Just in other ways. Fuck.  
  
John took a deep breath, trying to force his whirling mind not to think about Paul’s bloody awful Christmas confession. He’d forgiven him, for Christ’s sake, nearly nine months ago. He’d told Paul that he believed him. Sure, it had meant nothing — told Paul that he would let it go, that he’d forget it!  
  
Like bloody hell he had.  John stared down at the printed adverts in the newspaper, oblivious to their messages as they swirled about on the page, his thoughts lost in his own crippling insecurities, again.  
  
 _“John.”_  
  
“What?” John looked up at Neil, still sound asleep.  
  
 _“John.”_  
  
The sound came from the empty seat across from him. What the fuck was that?  
  
 _“S’me, mate.”_  Stu’s handsome face slowly appeared, pale and transparent and barely visible. No body though, no talented painter’s hands. Nothing but his face, exactly as it was — young and perfect and filled with curiosity Exactly as Stu had looked the last time John had seen him four years ago.  
  
“Stuart, what are ya doin’?” John whispered, as he leaned towards the translucent apparition, careful not to wake Neil. John couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. Tthis was all so fucking bizarre.  
  
 _“Just a visit. I get a few of these, you know. Amazing considerin’ what a right wanker I was!”_  
  
“Ssh. Don’t wake up Aspinall, alright?”  
  
 _“Oh, sorry. Yeah. He can’t ‘ear me though, luv. Only you can. So… arrogant prick McCartney finally fucked up. Fucked up royally this time. Ha, not a surprise, really. And yer forgivin’ ‘im for it? Now that’s a bit of a surprise, luv.”_  
  
“I’m tryin’, Stu. I’ve done me share of fuckin’ up too, ya know.”  
  
 _“That you have, son.”_  
  
“So is this why yer ‘ere. Just to remind me of Macca’s… of that? Rub it in me face? Clever Stu was right all along, yeah?”  
  
 _“No, not remindin’ ya, Johnny. Ya were already thinkin’ ‘bout Paul’s phone call, luv.”_  
  
“Bloody ‘ell. A mind readin’ spirit — is that what ya’ve turned into then, Stuart?”  
  
 _“I can only sometimes ‘ear what’s in yer beautiful mind, John. Ya know, it can get pretty bloody scary in there.”_  
  
John leaned back and lit a smoke, keeping one eye on Stu.  
  
 _“Ya should stop doin’ that, ya know. Smokes will kill ya!”_  
  
“Fuck off, Sutcliffe.”  
  
“ _John, luv. I’m not ‘ere to piss ya off. I love ya, ya know that. I’ve been watchin’ and thinkin’ and yer right.  Ya should forgive McCartney. He was fucked up on booze and drugs after all.”_  
  
“So he told me.”  
  
 _“John. You and Paul can make this thing between ya work. Things’ll change, you’ll see. Don’t be afraid of things changin’, luv.”_ Stu’s disembodied head leaned forward and greedily sucked in some of the cloud of sweet smoke drifting from John’s cigarette. Shit, Stu missed smokes.  
  
 _“So ‘ere’s the thing. You and McCartney can be together, if ya both really want it to work, that’s all I’m sayin’.”_ As smoked drifted out of his fading mouth, Stu chuckled his infectious laugh, winking at his old friend.  
  
“Care to give me a fuckin’ clue on how to do that, Stuart?”  
  
 _“Can’t. Sorry, luv.”_  
  
“Then lemme say it again, mate. Bugger off! Stop haunting me, will ya? Yer fuckin’ spookin’ me with these bloody appearances of yers. If ya can’t help, just fuckin’ sod off!”  
  
As Stu’s familiar laugh faded away, John wiped his eyes, furious with himself for letting his temper take hold of him. Probably never see Stu again after that, Lennon, you stupid fuck.  
  
“Huh? What was that, John?” Neil half-opened his eyes, glancing with concern at his companion, trying to wrap his foggy head around the possible reason for John’s outburst.  
  
“Sorry. S’nothin’, Nell. How much longer til we get to Paris?” John was getting antsy and anxious with anticipation. He hadn’t seen Paul in weeks; said he’d visit John on the film set, but Paul never showed up for some reason or other. Never showed up, even though John skipped out on that day’s filming and waited at the hotel, all fuckin’ day.  
  
“Bit over an hour, s’ppose. Do ya need something, John?”  
  
“Is Paul there already? I mean… when’s he s’pposed to arrive in Paris?”  
  
“Tonight, I think. He’s flying over direct from London. Meetin’ that model bird he’s been shaggin’. Meetin’ her at the airport, last time I checked with Brian.”  
  
“He’s bringin’ that brunette skirt, Maggie?” John gaze was hard and cold, as he swallowed the painful knot in his throat. “He’s… Paul’s bringin’ someone to Paris?”  
  
“Well, she’s already there, but yeah.  Paul arranged it all.” Neil saw the bitter pain on John’s face; Aspinall tried in vain to lighten up the mood a bit.  
  
“He’s sneakin’ ‘round behind Jane’s back again, the randy bugger. Never changes, does he?” Neil snorted with effort.  
  
John just turned his head to the window, his frozen expression unwavering. His defensive wall was coming back up. He could feel it beginning to envelope him, could see it in his own eyes in the reflection of the glass. Gulping another swallow of his amber scotch, John stared silently at the blurry landscape flying by the train window. Flying towards Paris.  
  
Towards a different Paris.  
  
Towards a different Paul.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

_1\. No snogging other blokes, ever.  
  
2\. Lock the fucking door, always  
  
3\. Don’t tell anyone, no matter what  
  
4\. Trust each other  
  
5\. Listen to our mates  
  
6\. Don’t be a jealous prick_   
  
_**7\. Jump down the rabbit hole** _   
  
  
**1967**   
  


On a bright, sunny September afternoon, he adjusted his dark sunglasses and scratched at the corner of his thick moustache, leaning forward and peering over the back of the red coach seat in front of him with suspicion and amusement. His full lips curved in a slight grin, George was trying to catch a good view of the clownish antics going on outside the colorful touring coach, now suddenly stopped on an English country road.  
  
 _“What's Paul doin’ now?”_ The guitarist chuckled silently, as he noticed McCartney standing on the road outside of the bus, gesturing emphatically to the bus driver.  
  
Besides trying to figure out the reason for this unexpected stop on their disorganized filming romp, George was anxious as well not to wake the slumbering lump now resting quietly in the coach seat next to him. Ever since lunch, John had been full of beans and flailing about spastically with a captive, but mildly entertained Harrison. Lennon had babbled like a maniac, non-stop, for nearly a straight fucking hour, before the older bloke succumbed to the weariness eventually brought on by the gyrations of his roller coaster mind. With a yawn and a wink, John had finally settled into his seat for a lazy afternoon kip.  
  
 _“Shit, at last. Sleep, ya blathering twat!”_  George shook his head and snorted affectionately. After picking up John’s cast-off, striped jacket and shoving it under his mate’s slumbering face as a makeshift pillow, George glanced over at their snoozing drummer. With a bit too much drink at lunch, Ringo was already snoring away, hat pulled down over his eyes and mouth wide open, just a couple of coach rows across the narrow aisle.  
  
When the driver yelled in frustration through the windscreen, George finally realized the cause for all the commotion… the psychedelic tour bus was having trouble navigating a stone bridge, too wide a vehicle to slip through the narrower impasse. They’d have to back up and turn around, rerouting the tour menagerie to a less scenic but more modern motorway. Clearly the coach was too wide to fit over the narrow bridge… everyone in the cast and crew could see that, for shit’s sake…  
  
Everyone!  
  
Everyone, that is, except tenacious Paul fucking McCartney, now bound on a mission to alter the laws of physics, change the order of the universe, bend the entire bloody cosmos to his will in order to accommodate his carefully-plotted agenda.  
  
Shit, George figured that Paul would challenge common sense and basic bloody logic if need be to realize his cherished plans.  
  
 _“Fuckin’ ‘ell, McCartney, ya stubborn nit.”_  George mused, as he watched Paul gesticulate and holler.  
  
“A bit more to the left, Alf! The left!” Paul barked with a concentrated, pinched mouth; through the armholes of his colorful pullover, his raised arms motioned like traffic signals. The bassist’s tone was a masterful blend of firmness and encouragement.  
  
“C’mon then. We’ve got a schedule ‘ere! We’re losing daylight, mate!”  
  
Within twenty minutes, and damn it all if that immovable dark-haired prick wasn’t spot on. The multi-colored coach managed somehow to scrape and shimmy its way across the old bridge.  
  
“Ah ha! See? Blindin’ success! And none the worse for wear!” Paul exclaimed with joyful satisfaction, jumping back on board with a flourish and taking his front row seat.  
  
“Shirrup! They’re kippin’, and they’re bloody quiet, so don’t wake ‘em, will ya.” George shot back in a low, brusque tone, as he bolted out of his seat and quickly moved up the aisle three rows to take the empty space next to Paul.  
  
“Old codgers takin’ their after lunch dozes then?” Paul smirked, looking back over his shoulder lovingly at John.  
  
“Yeah, finally. Been cornered listenin’ to Lennon yak about nothing for the last fuckin’ hour. He seems in a right good mood though. Pleasant for a change.”  
  
“What are ya on about, Geo? John’s been good, hasn’t he?”  
  
“Um, dunno, Paul. Today he’s not in a nark, but I think he’s feelin’ down some, cooped up with nothing but the telly out in the subs, scarfin’ down too many blotters and too much drink to pass the time, no doubt. A bored, miserable sod he’s been lately. And high outta his fucking head. Haven’t ya noticed, Paul?”  
  
“S’ppose.” Paul answered curtly, his triumphant mood now darkened and his brow knitted with concern, as he stole another look at John’s serene, sleeping face.  
  
Course Paul had fucking noticed. For shit’s sake, John’s increasingly erratic mood swings and obscene drug use were the main reasons why Paul came up with this birdbrain film idea in the first place! Get him off the couch, away from the dreariness of his suburban home life, away from the tripping and boozing. Get John reenergized and back to work, on something.  
  
Anything.  
  
Shit.  
  
As the sun was setting that lovely mid-September day, a noticeably scratched, psychedelic bus carrying a weary but colorfully clad hoard of cast and crew pulled into the car park of the old Victorian hotel. A few hours later, with dinner and a couple of glasses of wine polished off, Paul was roaming the hotel corridors on the top floor, unlit cigarette dangling from his full lips, making sure that everyone in their raucous party had settled nicely into their room assignments. Well, actually he was just making sure that his mates were satisfied with their accommodations — ya know, before the bitching and whining started. Ringo, Neil and Mal seemed pleased, and George wasn’t too annoyed, Paul reckoned, as he tapped lightly on the closed door of John’s hotel room.  
  
Slowly the dark wooden door opened to a half-dressed John, still wearing his striped suit trousers, black socks, expensive leather shoes and wire specs. His suit jacket, shirt, tie and braces were strewn over the small bed, a spent cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray on the night table. John pushed his glasses back up his sharp nose, as he crossed his naked arms and leaned casually against the doorjamb.  
  
“Room alright then?”  
  
“No.” John snapped, his face expressionless.  
  
“What’s wrong with it, John?”  
  
“What the fuck do ya think’s wrong with it, Macca?” John’s frozen face broke open into a naughty warm grin as he tugged on the hem of Paul’s pullover, pulling his lover a tad closer.  
  
“John, luv. There’s a mob of folks ‘ere.  The cast and crew are staying in this hotel too, ya know. People we hardly know, people that could talk to the press if they saw something.”  
  
Before Paul had a chance to finish his sentence, thick with worry and paranoia, John grabbed a fistful of the striped pullover waistcoat and pulled him into his hotel room, shutting the wooden door with a loud slam.  
  
Forgot to turn the lock, though.  
  
“Shut the fuck up and kiss me, ya twitterin’ bird.” John growled softly into Paul’s eyes, his hungry mouth inches from Paul’s lips.  
  
While he felt himself begin to melt into John’s lustful gaze, while his knees went weak with aching need, and his prick began to stiffen under his trouser fabric, Paul’s brain went into fucking overdrive, flying through all the potential scenarios of someone finding out, of them getting caught. Shit, he could practically see the scandalous words on the front page of the Daily Mail…  
  
 _Beatle Paul a Homosexual_  
  
In big, bold newsprint letters. Breaking news! Shame and humiliation hot off the press, sitting on the family kitchen table of every respectable home in Britain, on the fucking table of his Dad’s kitchen, right next to his old man’s bloody morning cuppa.  
  
Without Epstein to shield and protect them anymore, Paul’s nerves were raw much more often these days. It fell on his shoulders now to make goddamn sure that his nearly life-long secret love affair with John stayed fucking secret, stayed out of the press headlines. Drugs busts? Well, that was life as a rock star, wasn’t it? Queer revelations? No bloody way in hell, Paul scowled inside.  
  
“Sshhh, luv, we can be quiet. C’mon, babe. Relax.” John intertwined the fingers of his left hand in Paul’s thick locks, as he unbuttoned the top of Paul’s dress shirt, pulling aside the rumpled collar. Teasingly, he traced his lips across Paul’s collarbone, then up the length of his lover’s stubbled neck. When he reached Paul’s earlobe, John stopped with a whisper.  
  
“I’m ‘ere on this fuckin’ harebrained tour thing of yers, Paul, cause I expected that we’d ‘ave a bit of time together alone. That’s yer plan, right? Now we’re alone. C’mere, darling, let me love ya good.” John’s smooth, seductive words rippled through Paul’s tense muscles, and calmed the phantoms haunting his imagination. Oh, how Paul loved what John’s silky, velvet voice did to him. And how Paul needed John tonight. Needed to surrender to his strength, after a long day’s worth of ordering the cast and crew around, and solving everyone else’s bloody problems. And he was sober, sort of… and John was fucking sober. This was delightfully rare. Just simply let go, he told himself and submit to John’s will.  
  
Nibbling lightly on Paul’s tender cartilage, John hummed with a buzz into his ear, as he felt Paul’s tired body relax and willingly hand over control. John soon chuckled with an affectionate snarl, his right hand firmly stroking the growing bulge in Paul’s trousers. “That’s a good lad. Now let’s getcha outta these clothes, beautiful. But not yer pretty schoolboy jumper. Keep that on, yeah?”  
  
Eyes fixed on his determined lover’s face, Paul’s breathing hitched sharply when John undid his belt buckle with his free hand, slowly pulling Paul’s leather belt through the trouser fobs and tossing it onto the floor, his expert stroking working Paul into a sweaty fever. Soon stripped of everything but the vibrant jumper, Paul felt himself practically carried over to John’s hotel bed, his shoulders pressed down until he was sitting upright on the edge of the mattress, his hard prick throbbing helplessly between his hairy thighs. The scratchy itch of the knitted jumper against his hot, moist skin suited Paul’s desperate ache to surrender control. Standing half-dressed in front of him, John unbuttoned his own trousers as he forcefully cupped Paul’s chin and lifted his face, staring down with unwavering authority into those eager, dark eyes.  
  
“Suck me off. Deep, luv. Now.” John ordered with a low raspy snarl, moving his hand off Paul’s chin and grabbing a thick handful of his dark, damp hair. Paul caught his breath, swallowed the lump of lust choking his hoarse throat, and gratefully obeyed.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Morning light was streaming in through the sheer hotel curtains, as the door to John’s room opened slowly and silently.  
  
Completely spent and sound asleep from a long, mouth-watering night of dominance and submission, the two lovers lay there on full display, tangled in a naked embrace under the disheveled bed covers. Spooning with no space between them, John’s nose was buried against the pale skin of Paul’s neck, his left leg curled around Paul’s lower body; Paul’s left arm dangled limply off the edge of the mattress, his waist wrapped protectively by John’s possessive grip, his perfect lips parted in deep slumber. Light from the mid-morning sun danced off their messy hair and skimmed across their relaxed, sleeping features. Pools of sweat and spit and cum had left faint stains all over the fancy hotel bed covers. It had been a long night.  
  
Whenever Paul did manage to wake, he’d be aching. John had fucked him hard last night, demanded that Paul get down on all fours on the bed in complete submission; John had ferociously stroked Paul's prick and bit down hard on his back muscles while he impaled Paul’s tight arse until his younger, obedient lover drowned in waves of blinding ecstasy.  
  
Shit, Paul was gonna be deliciously sore today.  
  
“Bloody knew I’d find ya ‘ere.” George mumbled to himself, as his eyes took in the almost now familiar sight of his two band mates snuggled naked together in bed. Paul had fucking overslept, and half a dozen crew staff, including the cranky coach driver, were looking for him. Shit.  
  
George bloody hated the thought of having to wake them, but…  
  
“Paul.” Cautiously standing by the side of the bed, George leaned down and whispered, silently praying to several divine forces that he wouldn’t wake up John too. George preferred to avoid the whole topic of blokes spooning and arse fucking each other with his sarcastic goon of a bandleader.  
  
“Paul. Ya overslept. Get up.”  
  
“Huh?” Paul pulled back his left arm and rubbed his closed, tired eyes.  
  
“Ya overslept, ya git. Get up.”  
  
“Geo? Fuck, what the ‘ell are ya doin’ in ‘ere?” Paul asked in a low, frantic hush.  
  
“It’s late already and the film crew is lookin’ for ya, Mr. Director.”  
  
“Fuck! Fuck, shit! Tell ‘em I’ll be right down, will ya?”  
  
“Better get ‘im up too, Paul. Julian’s s’pposed to be dropped off shortly.”  
  
“I nearly forgot all ‘bout Julian’s visit. Fuck.”  
  
“Well now ya’ve certainly spent all yer “fucks” for today, mate. See ya downstairs.” George snickered, turned on his heels and quickly left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
John watched with tender amusement as the love of his life and his young son rolled around on the lawn, lost in play and imaginative games. Dressed in his daft magician’s costume, Paul pointed up to the sky and laughed, as Julian squealed with delight at his uncle’s silly, childish antics.  
  
“Ya see it over those trees? It’s a dragon, that cloud there.”  
  
“No, Uncle Paul. That’s a dog.” Julian laughed, stomping his feet in mock disagreement.  
  
“Nah, you little minstrel. It’s definitely a mean ol’dragon, with wings and breathin’ fire and all. Do ya see it, Julian, luv?”  
  
John didn’t normally carry a camera about with him anymore, but he’d brought one along on this trip, knowing that his wife had promised their son that she would let him visit at some point during the filming adventure. And John knew that Paul would find time in their hectic schedule to muck about with the playful boy. With John’s precious boy.  
  
 _Click._  
  
Another shot of beautiful Paul and angelic Julian looking up at the clouds.  
  
 _Click._  
  
A shot of sorcerer Paul lying in the grass, lifting little Julian up, telling the captivated child with the wizard’s cap that he was flying through the sky.  
  
This was the magical part of this bloody tour nonsense, John mused. A few more clicks of the shutter, and John carefully put the camera away in his bag, his eyes wet with tears behind his glasses; more memories to treasure for those days in the future when there would be no more moments worth remembering. John wandered off towards the coach, walking fast to nowhere in particular helped to blunt his pain, he’d noticed. A fucking Scotch would have helped too.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
An hour or so later, Julian’s brief, happy visit with his father and uncle was over. Back on the rumbling coach, the costumed troupe was soon delayed by another unanticipated stop near a beach in Cornwall; something mechanical or other with the coach engine, Mal had said. Fuck, their schedule was in a right mess and Paul’s raw nerves were further frayed by this unexpected setback. Biting anxiously on his thumbnail in a seat at the front of the bus, Paul’s sore bum was still warm and throbbing with vivid memories of John’s demands from the night before.  
  
“Ya feelin’ alright there, luv? Not lurgy or anything, are ya?” John’s liquid whisper of concern rolled across from the seat back behind the bassist, caring words of adoration pouring into the left ear of the self-appointed and frazzled director of this fucking cocked up mess of a project.  
  
“Na, I’m fine, luv. Need some fresh air though.” Paul mumbled, as he suddenly got up and escaped the suffocating atmosphere and fumes of diesel that filled the bright bus interior. In a flash, John was two steps behind, sailing down the steps to catch up with his mate, and with Ringo, who had joined Paul outside on the beach for a smoke.  
  
“Spare a fag, Ritch?”  
  
“Sure John. ‘ere ya go, son.” Ringo offered, with a nudge to John’s shoulder.  
  
“Bloody wreck of a coach we managed to let for this project, mates. Brian would‘ve made right sure that shit like this didn’t ‘appen.” Paul groaned in wistful disappointment, as he blew out another perfect smoke ring into the ocean breeze, staring off into the distant horizon. Wrinkles of worry framed his striking, dark twenty-five year old eyes.  
  
“It’ll be fine, Paul. Just a part of the big adventure and all. Isn’t that right, John?” Ringo tried to reassure his younger, tense friend, wrapping an arm around the taller man’s shoulders.  
  
“Richard, would ya mind giving Paul and me a few minutes alone?”  
  
“Course. Take all the time ya need. I’m gonna go see if Mal and Alf need any help, not that I’d be much, but just in case Mal needs a laugh, yeah? That driver’s a right gnarly old bastard.”  
  
As soon as Ringo had left to entertain Mal over by the broken bus, John turned to Paul, still distant and preoccupied in his own anxious thoughts. Shit, John just wanted to reach out and grab Paul’s hand, squeeze it until he felt his lover relax a bit. A stab of frustration and anger at the world ripped through John’s gut.  
  
“Let’s take a walk down the beach for a bit, Paul. I need to talk to ya ‘bout something.”  
  
Fuck. John’s tone sounded serious. Paul wasn’t sure he could fucking stomach any more heavy news. He knew he couldn’t. Not now. As they strolled shoulder to shoulder, well out of earshot of the rest of the crew, John stopped without warning and turned to face his best mate.  
  
“I can’t take this anymore, Paul. Something’s gotta change or I’ll lose my bleedin’ mind. Go completely crackers.”  
  
“The film’s not that bad. Not yet, luv. Did ya wanna direct something else, or change up some of the scenes?”  
  
“Paul…” The visceral pain in John’s quaking voice caused Paul to freeze in his tracks. He breathing momentarily stopped as he looked through the round glasses into John’s wet eyes. Paul quickly noticed that John’s hands were shaking, that his whole body was twitching with nerves. He’d never seen John this upset, this bloody hurt… well, not since John had lost Julia.  
  
“John, luv… Christ, what is it?”  
  
“Things ‘ave to change, Paul. I’m gonna shrivel up and bloody die out in Kenwood! I can’t stay there much longer, livin’ this bleedin horseshit lie for the rest of me fuckin’ life. It’s not fair to Cyn, or to Julian. Shit, it’s not fair to you! Or to me, for Christ sakes.” John’s voice trailed off at the last phrase, streams of tears running down his cheeks, as he looked away to try a gain some shred of composure.  
  
“John? What do ya want? What the fuck’s wrong, luv. We’ve got the band, nice houses. Kenwood’s a beautiful home, and we’ve dear cars and all that useless crap you’ve been talkin’ about since… shit, since Scotland, John.” Paul didn’t mean to snap. He regretted the harsh sound of his words before they even rolled off his lips. He reckoned that he was fucking everything up now.  
  
“I don’t ‘ave you though, do I?”  
  
“What? Course ya do! Ya had me pretty fuckin’ good last night, remember?” Paul was now whispering, out of habit mostly, his voice tinged with confusion and dread. He’d feared that this conversation was coming for some time now. And he knew that John would be the one with enough balls to dare to cross that fucking line in the sand.  
  
“It’s legal now, Paul. You know that, right? Read it in the papers, and even saw that BBC twit talkin’ about it on the telly.”  
  
John paused, patting his fur-fringed quilted jacket for his pack of smokes. Realizing that John hadn’t brought them, Paul reached in his pocket and handed his pack to his mate. John nodded, took out a cigarette, lit it, and continued.  
  
“I wanna leave Kenwood. Move to London by meself, and yer there already and…”  
  
“John. We can’t, luv. Not yet anyroad. Legal or not, if people found out about… shit, it would destroy the band, John!”  
  
“The band? Is that what yer fuckin’ worried about? What about me, Paul? Why don’t ya fuckin’ worry about me for a change!”  
  
“John.” Paul’s voice suddenly became soft and weak. He was so fuckin’ tired, so exhausted from carrying the weight of everything on his shoulders since Brian’s death. Paul just wanted to crumble to his knees and scream, but his legs wouldn’t move and the sound wouldn’t come out.  
  
“I’m not sharin’ ya anymore, Paul. Not with that bitch Jane, or that model whore. Not with yer codger of an old man. And not with the fucking Beatles either, Paul! I’m done sharin’ and sneakin’ around all the bloody time. You’ve gotta make a decision, luv. I’m leaving Kenwood. And I what  _I_  fuckin’ want… what  _I want_ is to cart all my useless crap over to Cavendish and clutter up yer lovely posh house. Got it? Is that clear enough?” John’s heartache had turned to anger, burning embers of need and frustration that had been eating away at the pit of his soul for years, boiling over into a stew of defiance and courage.  
  
“John…”  
  
“It’s a choice, Paul. Remember? In that grotty pub? Gotta chose, Johnny boy. Can’t have both dreams! Well, now it’s yer turn to chose, luv.”  
  
“John, I need time. Please, just give me a bit of time.” Paul broke down, digging his fists into his eyes, desperate to hide his sobs from the nosy crowd gathered by the colorful coach down the beach.  
  
“How much time?” John demanded, his heart breaking at the sight of Paul’s tears, at the pitiful low sound of Paul’s muffled cries.  
  
“I dunno. This sounds like a fucking ultimatum yer givin’ me ‘ere, luv! Please, John. Just please give me some time to wrap me head around this, sort through it all.”  
  
John grabbed Paul by the shoulders, spinning his soaked face away from the curious eyes of the distant onlookers. Gently, John wiped off Paul’s tears with the sleeve of his jacket, as more trails of pain spilled out of his own blood-shot eyes.  
  
“I love you. I’ll always love you, remember that? But this is a fuckin’ ultimatum, Paul. And I’m dead serious.” John paused to catch his breath, his mind spiining with fervor and hope.  
  
“Oh babe, hush. They can’t see anything. Sshh.” John whispered with bittersweet passion, as he leaned in, wiped off a few more of his lover’s tears and quickly kissed Paul’s softly on the lips. Pulling back just a few inches, John stared deep into Paul’s dark, watery eyes.  
  
“Ya can have a bit of time to think this through, alright? Not too much time though. I’m not waitin’ long, Paul.”  
  
“John…”  
  
With that, John pulled away and headed back alone down the Cornish beach, towards the broken down psychedelic touring coach, towards the madness, the lies and the familiar ache of isolation.

**~~~~~**

  
**1960**

 

The Cracke was packed to its usual, uncomfortable brim. A mob of disheveled, pissed college students spilled down the front steps and out onto the sloping street, out into the summer air of a warm, sunny afternoon. Inside the darker cloud of the pub, the spiraling smells of oil paints, smoldering ciggies, cheap pints and raging hormones buzzed through the space; crammed with college twits pressed shoulder to shoulder, the stifled air hummed with the sounds of clinking glasses and incessant chatting and cackling about the latest this or that happening.

At the center of it all, perched at a table that was raised up on a low platform in the corner, by one of the windows that looked out onto the street, sat the self-annointed monarchs of Ye Cracke — John Lennon and Stu Sutcliffe, arms draped heavily over each other’s shoulders, well pissed at lunchtime and lazily hunting for new talent to pull.

_“Bloody pathetic selection of fit birds today.”_  John grumbled to himself, as he took another satisfying swallow of his familiar Black Velvet concoction, his myopic eyes scanning over the herd of fuzzy shapes. Fuck, John wouldn’t have been able to see Bardot’s tits unless she shoved them right into his squinting eyes.

Cyn was scheduled to be gone on her holiday for only two more days, and John wanted another taste of fresh skirt before he went back to the same old comfortable grind. And then there was his beautiful, randy boyfriend, John grinned silently. The lad who had promised just yesterday that he’d meet him here at the Cracke at noon, nearly a bloody hour ago, for shit’s sake. Where the fuck was the tardy prat?

“Ya ‘bout ready for ‘nother bevvy, John? C’mon then, mate. Finish up!” Stu barked with a wink behind his heavy frames, slurring more than a couple of words, a goofy smile splashed across his handsome face. The bright light from the window behind Stu’s head cast a gloomy shadow over the artist’s refined features, obscuring most of his perfection.

“Goin’ on a bender, son? Lookin’ to get yerself arseholed?” John chuckled softly, gently squeezing Stu’s shoulder with affection. The small, antsy painter never ceased to amuse and entertain John, especially when Sutcliffe filled his wee gullet with a few too many Velvets.

“Nah, gotta finish up me project this afternoon, don’t I. Just quenchin’ me thirsty muse, softenin’ her up a bit, ya know, for me stiff paint brushes, luv.” Stu snickered back, one eyebrow raised in foolish mischief.

As John leaned back and rubbed his eyes with laughter, a dark-haired musician wearing skin-tight leather trousers and a black T-shirt forced his way aggressively past the poofy art clog at the entrance and bowled through the crowd towards the pub bar. Paul usually found John waiting at the bar when they’d arranged to meet up here, but this art college shithole that Paul bloody despised was so fucking packed with snobby tossers that the lad couldn’t see much farther than a couple of feet.

Maybe, Paul thought, was he early? No, he couldn’t be… he knew he’d be fucking late when he missed that first bus. Shit. Did John just give up and leave then?

Although John could barely see past the table without his glasses, he somehow sensed Paul’s arrival… maybe he’d caught a whiff of the gorgeous nit’s soapy scent wafting through the pub. John reached in his leather jacket pocket, pulled out his hated specs, and searched the sweaty, noisy dimness for his favorite fucking obsession. Just a couple of months ago, he and Paul had become lovers — in the front and in the back — of Johnny Gentle’s now smashed-up white van, in that car park in Inverness. A summer had nearly passed since the Parnes’ Scottish tour, months spent playing gigs around Liverpool, months sprinkled with secret, lustful trysts; both musicians were now quite addicted to the illicit, exquisite pleasures they had discovered together and eagerly shared to exhaustion.

_“Ah, there’s the pretty wanker.”_  John hummed to himself, his eyes narrowing, absorbing every tiny detail. Paul hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lennon could now see everything at the bar from his royal table. As he pulled away from Stu and crossed his arms behind his head, John leaned back further in his tilted chair, observing the way the streams of light from the pub windows danced over and lit up Paul’s face, like fucking spotlights on a stage. Shit, that lad was on display wherever the hell he went.

_The gentle slope of Paul’s perfect nose._

_Those rays that whispered across his boyfriend’s full, moist lips._

_The light kissing his round cheeks, then streaming upwards and reflecting off his shiny, thick quiff._

_Those fucking long, sweeping bird lashes — the way the sun hit them, illuminating evey single, soft curl._

As John sat mesmerized by Paul’s striking features, Stu watched his mate’s distinct, angular profile stay fixed on the splendid teenager nervously muckin’ about alone the bar. Fuck, McCartney had become bloody drop dead gorgeous, Stu sighed to himself reluctantly with a shake of his head.

_“Ya never stare like that at anyone one else, do ya, Lennon? Not at Cyn, not at birds, not at me… no one. Fallin’ hard for the arrogant little prick then. Shit. Please don’t get yer fuckin’ heart broken, John.”_ Stu anguished a bit inside for his best mate. He knew how hard and fast John could fall into an obsessive passion sometimes. And in the past couple of months, Stu had realized for certain that Lennon had fallen face first for that sultry McCartney twat.  Shit.

Within ten minutes of his arrival, Paul’s heavy-lidded, dark eyes finally landed on the auburn-haired lion, crouched on his throne in the corner, John’s feline gaze disrobing the eighteen year old. With a deep sigh of relief, Paul lifted his hands in exasperation, and dramatically rolled his eyes at his smiling arsehole of a boyfriend. Snatching his pint glass off the bar counter, Paul shoved and pressed his way through the tweedish horde, and plopped down in a wooden pub chair across the kings’ table from John and Stu.

“Oi, shit, ya found me!”

“Fuck off, John!  Why the ‘ell did ya leave me standin’ over there all that bloody time? Ya know I fuckin’ hate this hole.”

“Got yer nappie in a twist there, McCartney?” Stu snorted, but John just ignored Stu’s mild slag off at Paul.

“Why’re ya so late, mate?” John joked, tapping on the crystal of his old watch.

“Missed the bleedin’ bus, again.” Paul offered, with a slight tinge of an apology, as he grabbed John’s glass and downed a huge gulp of the beer cocktail, his eyes never leaving John’s gaze. Pushing back in his chair, Paul slowly wrapped his lips around a smoke and tried to relax.

Shit, he looked so damn fuckable, John mused.

And more grown, more masculine than just a few months ago — taller and thinner and more muscular. Had Paul wanted, the smarmy fucker could have pulled any of the college birds flitting about the Cracke. Shit, he could have pulled one for John too. But John figured, on this perfect sunny day, that he’d just skip the sorry skirts and go straight for Macca’s sweet arse.  Yeah.   And surprise the lad with the big news.  Afterwards.  Perfect.

“So, um, we’re practicin’ this afternoon?” John snarled at Paul with a sly grin, barely disguising his bubbling lust.

“Eh?  What?   Practice did ya say?”

“That’s right.  Practice.”

“Where? Me da’s home today, John.”

“Ah! But there’s Gambier, Macca! Rod’s off visiting his cousins or somebody, isn't that right, Stu?    And Stu, luv, yer ‘eaded back to the paintin’ studio for the afternoon, right?”

“And that bitch of a landlady who ‘ates noise?”

“Fuck ‘er.”

_“I’d rather fuck you, Johnny.”_  Paul smiled cheekily to himself, before he felt the icy stab of Stu’s cold, bespeckled eyes.  _“Sutcliffe’s being right fuckin’ weird._ ” Paul cringed.  _“And a bit spooky as well.”_

“Can I’ve a word with ya, Paul. Before ya leave for yer practice time, that is.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed at Stu in uneasy suspicion, his thumb toying anxiously with the soft edge of his upper lip.

“Now?” Paul looked at John, and then back at Stu.

“Now would be fab, luv. Let’s go outside, Paul and grab a bit of rare English sunshine while we talk.” Stu voice was unusually hard and unwavering, as he stood up to scoot around the edge of the pub table. John noticed, but decided to let it go. This was odd, but he was curious, after all.  What the fuck was Stu up to now? 

Leaving John and his whirling imagination to enjoy the last of his drink, Paul and Stu sauntered their way down the alley next to the Cracke, back over to the brick buildings at the rear of the deserted stretch, into the shadows. Paul wondered if this was going to turn into a barney. No, not bloody likely. Paul had Stu now by several inches and about two stone. Stu wouldn’t be daft enough to throw a punch, would he? Suddenly Paul stopped and turned, arms crossed defensively, muscles tensed in anticipation of the unexpected.

“So what’s this about, Sutcliffe?”

Stu swayed on a bit further and then stopped, lit a smoke, and turned to face Paul.

“I know that ya hate me bein’ in the band, Paul.”

“That I do.”

“Why is that, I wonder? I don’t pretend to be a decent bass player or anything, Paul. I’m not a threat to yer divine musical majesty, ya know.”

Paul doubled over in laughter, before he finally regained composure and caught his breath. “Maybe if ya could at least pretend to play bass better, I’d be more alright with ya in the fuckin’ band.”

Paul loved to let himself laugh. It suited his natural silliness. Just thinking about the affected tone of Stu’s slurred words had him snorting again, bent over with his hands resting on his leather-bound thighs, his face alight with his infectious, electric smile.

Stu didn’t normally fancy lads, but shit, McCartney wasn’t just any other lad, was he? A snot nosed, arrogant prick? Yes. A smug, bossy prat? Yes. One of the most fucking beautiful creatures Stu had ever laid his eyes on? Yes. Sutcliffe had found himself hiding a stiffy or two recently while watching pretty Paul practically wrap that incredible mouth of his around the head of the microphone on stage. Fuck. Before his inebriated brain could stop his randy body, Stu rushed over to a distracted Paul, grabbed his face in both hands, and kissed him hard on that luscious fucking mouth. Stu’s delicate but strong fingers dug harshly into Paul’s cheeks, as the artist clung to the unwelcomed snog a few seconds longer than he should have.

“Ger…roff me… you fucker!”   Stunned at first, Paul quickly propelled Stu’s small frame back, wiping his violated lips with the back of his right hand. Without much hesitation, Stu just began to holler with laughter.

“Hmm? I dunno, luv. I’m not sure it’s worth all the trouble.”

“What?  What fuckin’ trouble, Sutcliffe?”  Paul growled furiously, as he spat on the pavement.

Stu fearlessly marched straight up to the taller, stronger beauty with seriousness in his dark eyes, fierce intent that complemented Sutcliffe’s handsome features.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ do it, McCartney. Ya understand?”

Stu’s pointer finger, now stuck right in Paul’s confused, flushed face, was shaking uncontrollably; Stu’s drunk mind ached with regret as he finally began to register the stupidity of his rash actions.

“Don’t ever… don’t ever fuckin’ hurt John or I swear…”

“I dunno what the fuckin’ ‘ell yer jabberin’ on about, Sutcliffe. Yer bleedin’ pissed.   But I should clock ya for that. Throttle ya for that bloody stunt ya just pulled, ya cunt.”

“You ladies gettin’ yerselves into another scratchin’ match out ‘ere in the alley? Reckoned I’d better not leave ya to yer own devices for too long.”

Shit.

John.

Standing there in his tan trousers and black leather jacket. Arms crossed, a lit fag dangling from his lips. Legs slightly bent and spread apart in his natural, ‘I don’t give a flying fuck’ stance. An amused, sexy smirk spread across his face. Something about his good-looking college mate and his ravishing boyfriend having a row and a tussle made John’s prick twitch.

“C’mon, Macca. Let’s get yer guitar and ‘ead over to the flat. Tara, Stu. Good luck with yer project, mate.” John tried not to chuckle, but the amused tone was there, right below the smooth surface of his silky voice.

An hour later and two bus rides back and forth from Forthlin… and another bloody uncomfortable encounter with old man Mac, and finally John and Paul were settled down on John’s lump of a mattress at Gambier.

“How in fuckin’ ‘ell do ya get yer guitar out of tune so often, John?” Paul questioned with a laddish smile, John’s instrument cradled like a precious child in Paul’s lap, as he worked on adjusting the strings.

“I play rock and roll, luv. Hard.” John teased from behind, his right arm wrapped around Paul’s slender waist, his lips tickling the back of Paul’s neck, inhaling the smells of soap and grease and cigarettes. As Paul began to adjust another string, John’s fingers danced their way down to the growing hardness underneath Paul’s tight leather. Soon the older guitarist began to stroke and squeeze; Paul closed his eyes and leaned back into John and his talented hand motions.

“Mmm… how ‘bout ya play me hard for a bit, luv.” Paul crooned, his lips parted in desire. “Hmm. Shit, gimme a sec, yeah? I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Suddenly Paul sprang up and left the bedroom in the direction of the kitchen. Frustrated and confused, John decided to just strip off his smoke-stenched clothes and wait for the beautiful boy to return from whatever the fuck Paul was doing. Just wait there on the mattress, flat on his back, stark bloody naked and sporting a hungry throbber. In the dim light of his bedroom, as the sheer curtains fluttered from the breeze flowing in through the open window, John closed his eyes and imagined the world of possibilities he could share with Paul... share, that is, if Paul would take a fucking chance, and jump down the rabbit hole with him.

“Now there’s a lovely picture.” Paul chortled, his voice thick with lust, as he shoved the spoon back in his mouth, licking off the sweet sticky goo, moaning as the delightful treat caressed his taste buds.

John pushed himself up on his elbows with an eyebrow raised in interest. “What the fuck’s that?”

“Dunno. Some sort of honey. S’quite good though.”

“Shit, Paul.” John fell back in laughter, covering his eyes with his thick forearm. “That’s Stu precious and dear royal jelly crap that his mum sent him a year ago. For the tosser’s special Sunday cuppa. No one’s allowed to touch Stu’s fuckin’ prized honey from his mum, you git!”

“Ah! This tasty shit is Sutcliffe’s then? Even more perfect.” Paul’s wicked grin widened and his eyebrows arched higher, as he took another long lick of the golden cream off the metal spoon. “Think the artsy poof will mind if I cover your gorgeous prick with it?”

John just laughed from underneath his lashes, as Paul jumped on the mattress and stuck two fingers into the small glass jar.

“Fuck ‘im!” John finally groaned, his eyes closed again, his arms stretched out above his head.

“Nah, I’d much rather fuck you, luv.” Paul growled, as he began to spread the cool, sticky jelly over John’s hot, pulsing cock. Long, slow licks of Paul’s hungry wet tongue, dripping with saliva and sweet goo, sent John over the edge much sooner than Paul had anticipated. Shit, now that was a sweet gulp of royal Lennon jelly, Paul hummed as he slowly pulled John’s spent prick out from between his warm lips.

“Roll over for me, baby. Hmm, that’s a good Johnny.” Paul stood up off the mattress that was on the floor, pulled his black T-shirt over his head and peeled off his leather trousers. In a flash, he was down on his knees on the mattress, drinking in the sight of his satiated lover; John lay prostrate on the bed, head turned to the side, eyes closed, with a gratified grin of pleasure.

With less than half remaining in the tiny jelly container, Paul stuck his curled fingers in once more and scopped up the last load of honey. He closed his eyes in wickedness as he generously smeared Stu’s precious goo over his own aching prick. The perfect sweet lube, Paul mused. After gently inserting and twisting his honey-covered fingers into John’s waiting bum, Paul leaned down, whispering into his bird’s nest of amber curls.

“I’m gonna take ya now, Johnny.” John just groaned softly and relaxed as Paul pentrated him in one deep, steady thrust. Just the fucking way Lennon liked to be taken. Perfect.

The afternoon sun was lower in the sky as John lit a second smoke and handed it to the dark-haired,  naughty rascal lying next to him.

“I’ve got a bit of news, Paul.”

“Huh?” Paul exhaled a smoke ring and turned to face John, the tips of their noses touching.

“We got the Hamburg gig.” John spoke so low that Paul was sure that he’d heard him wrong. Then, as John’s words sunk into his foggy, delerious brain, Paul immediately shot up to a seated position, his eyes wide with delight, his mouth open in a surprised circle.

“What the fuck did you just say, John? We got the job? The one in Germany? Shit, really?”

“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya, Paul.  Christ.  Yes, you beautiful daft twit. We got the job!   A hundred fuckin’ quid a week, son, and all the German beer we can stomach. All the giant-titted blonde frauleins we can bang.  We’ll be world-famous rockers, luv.  Real professional musicians.” John bloody hoped the last bit might lessen some of the anxiety he knew would soon cloud over Paul’s beautiful face.

Fuck. Yeah, there it was. That concerned, wide-eyed, dopey look McCartney got when he was faced with a dilemma.

“I’m s’pposed to be applying for teacher’s college, John. Dad got me an application. Classes start in a month. When’s the Hamburg gig start then? How long is it for? A hundred quid a week, did ya say?”

“Shit, slow down, Paul.” John sat up, crossed his muscular arms and leaned back against the plastered wall.

“The Hamburg gig’s s’pposed to last for at least three months, Paul. Yer gonna have give up that teachers plan of yers... or should I say yer dad’s plan, right? It’s simple, luv. Come to Hamburg with me, or stay here in Liverpool for more bloody useless school, like a well-behaved slave to yer dad’s dreams. It’s yer choice.”

With a sober but loving grin, John kissed Paul on the cheek, got up and headed off to the loo to wash off the gummy mess that covered his crotch and well-fucked arse.

“Shit.” As he watched his boyfriend’s perfect sticky bum swagger out of the room, Paul’s mind began to race as he weighed the choices on his mental planning scale. Dragging his fingers through his damp mess of hair, he pondered his options.

On this side, more fucking bloody school, a decent and honorable career, regular wages, his father’s respect and trust.

On that side, well… there was John. And the band. And playing the music he loved in an exotic foreign country he’d never been to.  And a hundred quid a week. And there was John. Three months alone with John. Well not alone really, but sort of, right?

Shit.

There wasn’t much of a fucking choice, was there?

A smile slowly consumed Paul’s face as he lit another smoke. He grabbed a scrap of paper off John’s floor and scratched a quick note for later. He’d leave it on the kitchen table, next to the empty glass jar, when he was on his way out, yeah?  

_Ta for the sweet pressie, Stu. Your best mate, Paul._

Perfect.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

_**8\. Tell each other the truth** _   
  
  
**1965**   
  


They all sat around the long, cream-colored antique dining table on that winter Boxing Day evening. The late-night dinner party at the Lennons' Kenwood estate had been a truly scrumptious spread, despite the fact that Cyn had burned the biscuits. Now, as every satiated guest settled back into their wooden dining chairs, after-dinner smokes filled the air and liquor was flowing freely. Giggles and chatter and John’s hearty laugh from one end of the table warmed the spacious dining room, lit only by a few wall sconces and a festive arrangement of candles.  
  
It was a jolly holiday gathering, an occasion for merriment with family and friends, at the end of another successful year. There had been the accolades for their daft color film, John’s second best-selling book, and now the new LP had hit the charts and was the number one record. Bloody good fucking year indeed, John recollected, as he sighed deeply in contentment, downing another healthy gulp of his smooth scotch. They were the kings of the fucking world now, he and Paul. John ran his fingers through the silky, maple hair that hung low over his forehead, his narrow brown eyes peering out from underneath the thick fringe, scanning the relaxed faces of his dinner guests.  
  
Along the length of the table, on the side nearest the deep bay window, Mo swaddled and cooed dozing baby Zak in her arms, as Cyn wiped off Julian’s tiny fingers for the umpteenth time, trying in vain to keep the fidgety toddler from completely ruining his dear velvet Christmas outfit. John chuckled silently at the wrestling match going on between his exasperated wife and the lively tot squirming in her lap.  
  
“Alright, that’s enough of that, Julian. Off for a bath now! Say goodnight to everyone.” Cyn demanded softly in her sweet voice.  
  
The bouncy boy merely smiled through the cigarette smoke at the table crowded at one end with his parents’ grown-up friends; twisting out of the grasp of his frustrated mother, the sprite lad hopped over to his father, seated at the head of the table.  
  
“Night-night, Daddy.”  
  
“Goodnight, son. Don’t give yer mum aggro in the bath then, right?” His voice velvety and warm, the guitarist ruffled his young son’s hair to a clownish mess.  
  
Julian just shook his wee head with a vigorous nod, his miniature Lennon face lit up in adoration. The boy’s small brown eyes stayed fixed on his famous father, until John finally turned away from the child’s reverent gaze to chat with Ringo. Without much more fanfare, Cyn scooped up Julian and, along with Mo and her nearly newborn bundle, the mothers made their way up the stairs to the second floor bath.  
  
“So, tell us the story again, Richard. Where did our Georgie boy propose to ‘er?” John asked with his usual, wise-ass smirk, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his blue dress shirt.  
  
“In his precious bleedin’ car. Where else!” Ringo snorted back, already quite comfortably pissed.  
  
“And she’s not preggars?”  
  
“Nope, don’t think so, John. Miracle, that one. Poor, hapless lad! True love, I s’ppose.” Ringo mocked, his hands clasped in jest over his heart.  
  
“Well, they do seem completely besotted. Don’t they, George?”  
  
“Absolutely smitten, my dear. Delightful couple in every respect.” Martin replied to Judy, in his gentle, posh tone, patting her affectionately on the forearm.  
  
While Ringo, George and Judy gossiped about Harrison’s unexpected Christmas proposal to Pattie, and debated over how soon the two lovebirds would wed, John found himself drifting off into his head, realizing again just how fucked up it was that he and Paul were never bloody together at Christmas. Or any other holiday, for fuck’s sake. Unless they were stuck far from home out on tour.  
  
“So where’s Paul then? Heard he was goin’ back to Liverpool for the Christmas holidays? Is that right, John?” Ringo blurted out from nowhere.  
  
John shook himself from his whirling thoughts at the sound of his name.  
  
“Huh? Um, yeah, he’s back visitin’ his family. No Jane bird, though. Flew off on another bloody theater thing.”  
  
“Ah! So Paul went back for Jin’s holiday cookin’, did he. Smart lad. Did he go by ‘imself?” Ringo asked, taking a long drag off his expensive imported cigar.  
  
“Nah. Not alone. Macca took along that posh Guinness wanker that’s been sniffing ‘round lately, licking Paul’s heels like a bloody bitch in heat.” At the harsh sound of the last words, John glanced over at Judy, who was bowing her head and rubbing her hands together uncomfortably at the growing proliferation of rough language.  
  
“Sorry Judy, luv. We’re just northern scruffs, ya know. Bloody unkempt street urchins, the lot of us.”  
  
The words rolled off John’s tongue like thick honey, immediately sweetening the bitter bite of his profanity-strewn growling. Seconds later, an affectionate smile erupted over John’s entire face, that extra ammunition that John had long used to charm most anyone.  
  
Before Judy had a chance to respond to John’s thoughtfulness, the phone rang upstairs in the master bedroom. And rang. And then rang again, until someone somewhere in the mock Tudor house finally answered the fucking thing.  
  
Silence.  
  
Nothing.  
  
John exhaled, delighted that his impromptu holiday party wouldn’t be interrupted by some work shit, or Eppy’s incessant queer blathering, or whatever the fuck.  
  
“John? There’s a phone call. Paul’s on the line.” Cyn practically whispered, demurely peeping her head through the door opening of her own dining room. As John walked over towards her and the stairs, she leaned in and chirped, “He’s sounds pissed, John.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Paul?” John practically whispered as his picked up the receiver.  
  
“John. John? Are ya there?” John thought that his lover’s voice sounded more weak and tired than pissed. Though his words were certainly slurred, and Paul’s shallow breathing was unusually erratic.  
  
“I’m here. What wrong, luv?” John could hear it. He could hear trouble underneath the haze of booze clouding Paul’s speech.  
  
“I’ve been in an accident… on a moped. Crashed it into the fucking pavement. Cut up my face something terrible.”  
  
What was that? He fucked up his bloody beautiful face! Covering one ear with his left palm, John tried to better hear Paul’s low, garbled words.  
  
“An accident? Are ya ok? Where are ya, luv?”  
  
Panic swelled in John’s chest as he imagined Paul’s perfect features covered in bandages, drops of blood dripping down onto the Christmas train appliqué stitched onto some poofy holiday Macca jumper.  
  
“I’m alright. Fine, really. I’m at Jin’s. Got me lip stitched up ‘ere by the doctor. No hospital, cause of the press and shit. Fuck, John.“  
  
“Ya sound right pissed, Paul.”  
  
“Bladdered. Painkiller for the bloody stitching needle. All Jin had was booze. Broke me tooth too.”  
  
There was an uncomfortably long pause of silence.  
  
“John? Are ya still there? Shit.”  
  
A busted lip and a broken tooth? John exhaled in relief, his fingers itching to do something, fucking anything for his injured boyfriend, some four hours away, back in shithole Liverpool. John felt completely fucking helpless.  
  
“Ya gonna live though right, princess?” John finally asked tenderly, with a predictable tinge of mocking.  
  
“Fuck! You! Ya think this is funny, then? Ya don’t know what I’m goin’ through, John!  
  
John pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. What the fuck was  _that_  bloody outburst, ya cunt?  
  
“John?”  
  
After a deep breath to stay calm, John spoke.  
  
“I’m still here.”  
  
“John, John…” Now Paul was pissed and fucking whimpering. Bloody hell.  
  
“What is it, luv?”  
  
“I fucked everything up, John. With Tara. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t fucking even want to. Christ.”  
  
“What everything? Is that Browne twit hurt too or something?”  
  
“No, it’s not about the fucking motor bike crash.” Paul’s sloshed voice trembled with guilt and regret.  
  
“How exactly did ya fuck everything up, Paul?” John’s voice quickly morphed from concern to an icy razor.  
  
“John.”  
  
“Paul.”  
  
“John, luv, I… I fucking had sex with Tara. After we got back to London, from that British tour we just finished.”  
  
There was another uncomfortable pause of silence. A short one, though.  
  
“I swear, John — I was so bloody fucked up. I know that’s just a rubbish excuse, but I was pissed off me head, and high on this cocaine shit that I tried, and I smoked a fuckload of pot and… shit. John. I’m sorry. I barely even remember it, luv. Fuck! I’ve cocked up everything.”  
  
John hadn’t heard much of whatever Paul was going on about after his boyfriend had said the words  _‘sex with Tara’_.  
  
All John could hear was that crack. The crack that he’d had first noticed in that nasty pub another lifetime ago in Liverpool, on that night, really just only a bit more than three years ago — that crack, which suddenly splintered and shattered like a thunderclap through John’s chest.  
  
Paul had cheated? His Paul had fucked that little Guinness cunt?  
  
John collapsed into the upholstered wingchair in his posh bedroom as his knees gave way. He couldn’t speak. Fuck, he could barely breathe. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to stave off the waves of everything he could have ever possibly felt at this fucking exact moment. When Paul finally cheated on him.  
  
No matter what McCartney said from this point forward, no matter what sweet bullshit his seductive, broken mouth uttered. He’d lost his Paul. This was a new Paul fucking McCartney, one that got in scooter accidents, one that got right fucked up on drugs John hadn’t even tried yet. One that fucked other blokes.  
  
Fucked other blokes…  
  
“John. I’m fucking sorry.” Paul was openly sobbing his confession now, slurring his words to mush. “I… I don’t know what else to say to ya. John, it’ll never ‘appen again. Never. Please, John, Talk to me, luv. Please.”  
  
“Least ya spoke the truth, ya fuckin’ whore!” John slammed the receiver down in its black cradle and pushed himself out of the chair with effort, but purpose. With one smooth move, the phone was launched across the room, smashing into a bookcase on the far end, landing into a jumbled heap with a loud crash.  
  
Furious with pain, John stormed through the smoke-filled dining room towards the kitchen to retrieve his car keys; Ringo, more clearly than anyone else at the table, saw the raw anguish poorly disguised on his mate’s face.  
  
Oh shit. What did Paul say?  
  
The air was crisp but dry and biting as John stepped out from his suburban mansion into the cold night, marching towards his car.  
  
 _“Fuckin’ cunt.”_  
  
The anger and the pain were… Shit, Lennon wasn’t fucking prepared for this. Not this. Paul should have left him a long time ago for some huge-titted, blonde actress or model. That’s what John had fucking expected, for shit’s sake. Not for some talentless, fucker-faced prick. Course, Paul had said nothing about leaving John, but John often heard only the rumbling insecurities that raged through his own mind anyroad.  
  
 _“Christ, Paul had fucked another bloke. Broken every goddamn contract rule, the dirty whore! Except that truth rule — the rule that the smarmy slut had insisted they put in their contract. Fucker!”_  
  
John fumbled with the car keys, trying to figure out which one actually opened the driver’s side door.  
  
 _“Fuckin’ cunt.”_  
  
After a brief struggle with the car door lock, John landed in the front seat, turned on the ignition and began down the long, steep driveway. At least for a hundred meters or so. Until he suddenly slowed down and pulled the car over, still quite a distance away from the front gate. With a disgusted sigh, John shifted the car into park.  
  
He’d forgotten his glasses back at the house.  
  
He couldn’t see for shit, especially not in the dark of night.  
  
He couldn’t drive anywhere.  
  
He couldn’t bloody escape from this hell! Fucking ever!  
  
With the engine still running and humming, John’s head slowly fell forward against the leather-clad steering wheel of his dear but useless car, his throat choked with suffocating sobs.  
  
 _“Shit, Paul. You stupid, stupid prick. How could ya fuckin’ do this? How could ya do this to me?”_  
  
John cradled his head between his forearms, his whole body shaking uncontrollably with sobs and gasps of grief. And betrayal. And abandonment.  
  
Less than five minutes later, as John sat crying alone in his useless car on his unwanted suburban estate, a soft drum tap on the passenger’s window jolted the guitarist out of his drowning.  
  
“Probably gonna need these, mate.” Flashing his warmest smile, Ringo held up John’s glasses between his thumb and forefinger; when he moved forward so that John could actually see his own fucking glasses, the drummer comically pressed his trademark nose against the window glass. His face soaked with trails of tears, John slowly leaned over and opened the passenger’s door.  
  
“Seems like a bender is in order, yeah? Mal’s comin’ to get us, luv… so turn yer car ‘round and park this thing, you blind git.” Ringo laughed and winked, but with sadness in his deep blue eyes, knowing that this Boxing Day celebration was going turn into one fucking long, heartache of a night.  
  
~~~~  
  
After John hung up on him, Paul carefully put the receiver back down, his head throbbing from the pain of getting stitches in his sensitive lips without proper anesthesia, and from the surge of adrenaline pounding through his entire body.  
  
What the fuck had he just done? Why did he tell John about  _that_  over the fucking phone! Was he  _that_  fucking pissed,  _that_  fucking stupid? Confessing to a meaningless affair with no chance to look into John’s beautiful hurt eyes, to caress his handsome face in apology, to kiss his sweet lips with buckets of genuine regret. As the last bits of energy left his body, Paul lowered his bruised and battered face, resting his cheek on his outstretched arm slung across the spare room table.  
  
“Are ya alright, son? Is the pain any better?” Jim had practically sprinted over to Jin’s house after receiving the call that his eldest lad was in a scooter accident and hurt.  
  
“No, da, s’not better. S’worse.” Paul whispered, wiping off a rogue tear left over from his sobbing. Fuck, his mouth hurt so bloody bad.  
  
“That Tara lad is asking for ya. Seems worried and all. Ya want me to send him in?”  
  
“No!” That had come out much harsher than even Paul expected.  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Well, I rang Neil up, and he’s on his way. He’ll get ya and yer young friend back to London in the mornin’. Should try and rest a bit before ya leave, Paul.”  
  
“Yeah. Back to face it all, s’ppose, with me busted up face. And with me new little mate in tow. Fuckin’ bloody wonderful.” Paul spat the words out with sarcastic bitterness.  
  
The bassist stumbled out of the old chair and stretched out on his back on the spare room bed that he’d once shared with John, where he’d once melted in ecstasy at the pleasure of that crotch-ripping birthday blowjob. Carefully, Paul undid the clasp of his precious silver bracelet and gently cupped the chain inside his clenched left hand. He had no right to wear John’s secret gift anymore. He had no right to anything anymore.  
  
“Jane’s left her theater tour and is on her way back to London, ya know. Did the second she found out ‘bout yer accident, Paul. Good lass, that Jane. She’ll make a fine wife, son.”  
  
“Yeah.” Paul wasn’t listening any longer, just spewing out “yeah” and “nah” as if he were on some sort of verbal autopilot, like a mechanical monkey performing poorly at a boring press interview or something.  
  
John.  
  
Fuck, would he… could he ever forgive him?  
  
In the darkness of Jin’s lace-covered spare room, Paul shielded his swollen eyes with his forearm and began to sob again, though more quietly… and with little more than a scrap of hope. And with absolutely no fucking plan.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **1968**  
  


Paul felt the rough, calloused pad of a strong finger run down the short slope of his nose, and then down lower, scratching across his moist lips, and then down further, over the thick, black stubble that now obscured the cleft in his chin. Slowly, Paul opened his heavy, sultry eyes.  
  
“Kip’s over, beautiful.” John whispered quietly, still feeling uncomfortable sneaking into Paul’s ashram living quarters, half expecting his lover’s redheaded fiance to pop in at any moment. Fortunately, Cyn and Jane had gone into Rishikesh with Mal for some spiritual trinket shit shopping. They’d be gone for hours, John hoped. Everyone else was either sleeping or meditating, as far as John could tell. Perfect rare fucking opportunity, it was.  
  
“Hmm, what time is it then?”  
  
“Time to give Johnny some of that famous Macca lovin’, you gorgeous twat!”  
  
Paul closed his eyes again slowly, and stretched his arms above his head on top of the bed covers like a cat; a sleepy grin spread across his face, causing his fleshy cheeks to swell, like a squirrel with nuts stored in its cheek pockets. The air was filed with the sweetness of exotic flowers and the cackles of tree monkeys. Everything tasted, smelled and sounded bleedin’ sacred here.  
  
“Know what I love ‘bout India most?”  
  
“What’s that, John? The peaceful serenity? The inner light?” Full-cheeked Paul chuckled softly, his eyes still closed in sleepy bliss.  
  
“I love how fuckin’ easy it is to get these loose clothes off ya, darling.”  
  
John grabbed the embroidered hem of the whisper light fabric and smoothly slid Paul’s flowing purple linen shirt up to his neck, nibbling trails of hunger across his torso, licking and sucking on Paul’s hairy nipples until he heard that delectable, dirty moan erupt from the very back of Paul’s throat.  
  
“Hmm. Ah! But what if I’m laying ‘ere deep in meditation, luv?” Paul eventually snorted in jest, with unabashed adoration.  
  
“I’ll give ya something to meditate on. Something ya can meditate over, real fuckin’ deep, baby.” John snarled with a wicked grin into Paul’s ear, as he took off his wire specs and placed them on the low carved table beside the large European-style bed.  
  
“So, um, Paul? Think yer Janey bird will mind if we make love in yer ashram fuck nest?”  
  
“Nope. Don’t think she’d care at all, luv. Not that I’m planning on gloatin’, mind ya.” Paul snickered, as he opened one eye, and lazily winked at John with complete naughtiness.  
  
Nope, beautiful crimson Jane wouldn’t mind. Not since that trip to Greece last year. Not bloody likely Jane would have any issue with John and Paul shagging in their bed after that Grecian adventure — no problem, what-so-fucking-ever. Paul’s broad smile grew just a tad bit wider. Even for all her stubborn nit picking, Paul had decided that Janey bird was the bloody perfect girl for him.  
  
After crawling onto the bed next to his lover, John pushed his sharp nose through Paul’s long, thick dark hair, and nibbled tenderly on Paul’s earlobe; the fingers on John’s left hand danced there way down Paul’s chest, to the loose waistband of Paul’s colorful linen trousers. Poking his talented tongue into Paul’s ear, just the way Paul fucking loved it, John’s fingers slowly slipped underneath the light fabric, teasing wide circles around, and just out of reach of his boyfriend’s half-hard prick.  
  
“John.” Paul gasped breathlessly. “John, oh god… please.”  
  
John’s quietly snorted into the scruffy short beard on Paul’s jaw.  
  
“Never have had a fuckin' ounce of patience, have ya? How ya ever gonna reach nirvana without a bit of patience, luv?”  
  
“Hmm, nirvana sounds nice, Johnny. Gimme some of that nirvana shit, baby…”  
  
John chuckled again, this time against Paul’s rough neck; the two lovers’ facial stubble rubbed and grinded and scratched against each other in the most sinfully noisy way. Shit, they could write melodies with their beard growth while they fucked, John hummed to himself softly.  
  
“You wanna feel my rough hands on you then? Or is it me face fur ya want? Huh, which is it?”  
  
“Both. Anything. Just touch me, luv.”  
  
Underneath the bright blue fabric, John’s deft fingers lightly danced and skipped along the hard length of cock, until they wrapped themselves around the soft warmth of Paul’s ball sack. A gentle squeeze. Another moan from Paul, as he squirmed wantonly on the bed covers at the sensation of John’s taunting, coarse touches.  
  
“I need to make love to you, Paul. I fuckin' need to be inside ya.”  
  
“Please. Shit, yes.” Paul sat up and quickly pulled off his linen trousers and his loose shirt, falling back on the covers stark naked, his eyes heavy with lust and desire. John stood up, preparing to strip off his own flowing colored clothes, and grabbed the lotion he knew he’d find in the table drawer. Teasingly, John poured a stream of lotion down the length of Paul’s shaft.  
  
“Touch yerself, luv. I wanna watch ya toss off a bit. Make some sweet noise for me.”  
  
As Paul closed his eyes again, and enthusiastically complied with John’s demand, his left hand pumping himself to aching stiffness, John slowly slid out of his clothes, bare naked except for the talisman necklace. Naked, except for that leather necklace that Paul had given him that day. Standing at the foot of the bed, his arms grabbing onto each of the bedposts, John watched his gorgeous lover masturbate for him on the bed. Moan for him. Perform for him.  
  
“Mmm, yer fucking beautiful. Yeah, that’s right, luv. Fuck yerself good.”  
  
“John… ah, shit… fuck me, luv.”  
  
“Not ready yet. Gonna need a bit of that mouth of yers. Now don’t you stop doin’ that, darlin'. Keep tossin’.”  
  
“Fuck, John.” Paul groaned as he tried to slide down to the foot of the bed while still frantically pumping his lubed prick. “There. Is that what you want?” Paul growled, just before he slipped John’s stiffening cock in between his lips.  
  
“Hmm… yeah, that’s it.” The sight of Paul sitting there on the edge of the foot of the bed naked, sucking him off, and wanking himself hard, was bloody intoxicating. How the fuck was he gonna stop. Shit, he had to stop or he’d lose it any moment. Slowly he pulled his aching throbber out of Paul’s mouth and bent down to grab his lover’s ankles. John wanted to tie Paul’s feet to the bedposts, but he had to settle for just resting them against the thick, dark wooden posts.  
  
“Fuck… I need ya, Paul.”  
  
“Then fuckin’ take me.”  
  
“Do ya want me fingers first?”  
  
“Fuck, no. I just want yer cock. Now.”  
  
John grabbed onto Paul’s hips and jerked his lover’s tight arse closer to the edge of the bed, Paul’s legs bent and braced against the sturdy bed structure. He covered his cock in the slippery lotion before entering Paul slowly, a little bit deeper with each push, just the fucking way Paul like to be penetrated… slowly. Pull all the way out; push back into the hot tightness, pull out again, push back in, a bit deeper. Paul liked to relish getting arse fucked.  
  
“Kiss me... shit, kiss me. Please, luv…” Paul begged softly.  
  
John bent down and sloppily covered Paul’s hungry mouth with his own, slipping his tongue in between those lips, tickling and caressing Paul’s mouth. As Paul wrapped his arms around John’s neck, pulling him down as far as he could, they became one, connected in fucking everyway… hands tangled in each other’s hair, tongues moaning and wrestling with mutual worship, skin pressed together, soaked with sweat, and Paul’s arse filled with John’s thick, pounding prick.  
  
“I’m gonna…”  
  
“Hold on, luv. I’m… almost… there.”  
  
“John…”  
  
“Just one more…”  
  
“I can’t… John…shit…”  
  
“Come with me, luv. Together. Now, for shit’s sake.”  
  
They tried in vain to muffle and quiet their simultaneous screams, but Paul was pretty fucking sure that, if nothing else, those stinking tree monkeys had heard them holler loud in blinding pleasure.  
  
Shit.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
“So ya haven’t asked.” Paul said softly, as he lit John’s smoke for him.  
  
“Said I’d give ya time, didn’t I?”  
  
“Yeah, ya did. Ya’ve given me quite a bit of time, luv. I love ya for that, ya know.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” John smirked, his eyes drinking in the sight of Paul stretched out on the bed, naked and well fucked. “Got any liquid refreshments ‘round here, ya randy swami?”  
  
“Yeah, sure. Hold on.” Paul laughed, and quickly jumped off the bed; the dark-haired, naked beauty fished through his suitcase for the bottle of top-shelf scotch he had stashed in his bag before he left London, over two weeks ago now. John watched as Paul bent down to retrieve the bottle, his bare ass stuck out proudly in the cool February air. John sighed.  
  
“I’m not gonna fuckin’ nag ya, Paul. I’m not that bloody bitchy Jane. But I do want an answer from ya. And soon.”  
  
“Ya deserve an answer, John. Very soon.”  
  
“So… s’ppose yer still… what, conflicted? Is that the right word?”  
  
“S’ppose. Yeah, conflicted sounds ‘bout right. I’m not conflicted ‘bout how much I love ya, never ‘bout that, John.”  
  
Paul poured a full glass, and took a swallow of the smooth amber Scotch.  
  
“I’m working through it though, luv. Really, I am. Haven’t thought ‘bout much else since that day on that beach in Cornwall. The meditation stuff is helping, I think.”  
  
“So…um…when do ya think yer gonna know, Paul? Ya know, so I can fit it into me busy schedule and all.” John sneered.  
  
“Soon, baby. Very soon. Probably when we get home, I think.”  
  
“Bit of a dodgy, sexy twit, aren’t ya?” John chuckled.  
  
“Ya know, John. I’ve never asked ya something.”  
  
“What’s that, luv?”  
  
“Did ya really forgive me for that shit with Tara Browne?”  
  
“Stone dead and cold, in the ground, Tara Browne? Yeah, a while ago, actually. I mean… we all fuck up. Would be weird if ya didn’t fuck everything up once in a while, ya know? Yer not that bloody perfect, Paul.”  
  
“Ha! Yeah, s’ppose so.” Paul lit another smoke. “And ‘A Day in the Life’ is a fucking great baby of ours, isn’t it? Did you ever fuck up?”  
  
“Ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me, right?”  
  
“No, I’m being serious, John. I know all ‘bout that stupid tossin’ shit with Brian in Spain. And now he’s dead too. First it was Tara, and then Brian…”  
  
“First it was Stu, luv.”  
  
“Shit, Stu. Yer right. But ya never fucked Stu?”  
  
“Never. Ya know that, Paul.”  
  
“What about that photographer prick that fancied ya?”  
  
“What? David poof Barely?”  
  
“Yeah, him. Anything ever ‘appen between ya and that slimy arsehole?”  
  
Where the  _fuck_  did that come from? What the fuck was Paul talking about? John’s confusion must have been plastered all over his face, since Paul stubbornly kept the conversation going. Daft prick, sometimes, that pretty Paul.  
  
“We said we’d always tell each other the truth, John. Wrote that into the contract, didn’t we?”  
  
“I’m not sure what yer on about here, Paul.”  
  
“Really?” The sarcasm was starting to crack through Paul’s gentle tone.  
  
“Ya wanna say something, tell me something that I dunno then?”  
  
“Something ya don’t know? Alright.” Paul paused to exhale, the sarcasm now dripping off his tongue, as he also took another sip of maple-colored scotch out of their shared glass.  
  
“I saw ya. So did two young birds, but I don’t think they recognized ya. Bloody hell. I fucking watched, John! That night, at that New Year’s party, where that arsehole was mucking about with his models.”  
  
“What the fuck do ya mean, ‘ya saw me,’ Paul?”  
  
“Shit, John. Ya left the fuckin’ door open. You were on bloody display.”  
  
“What?” John throat started to tighten and close with something. Was it fear? Shame? What the fuck was it?  
  
“I’m leaving the loo upstairs at Norman’s house that night, and I see two giggling birds standing in front of an open bedroom door. I look in, and there’s that arsehole standing over ya, John. C’mon, luv. You let him fuck you, face down on the bloody bed, like a fuckin’ rent boy.”  
  
John couldn’t talk. He couldn’t even start to make words. He sat there frozen, in disbelief and denial.  
  
“So, yeah. Ya fucked up too, John. I know. I’ve known for a while, haven’t I? I got to watch! It was bloody lovely, ya bastard!”  
  
Paul hadn’t meant to work himself up into a complete fit… but he fucking lost it. He threw his linen clothes back on in silence and stormed out of the quarters, red-faced and seething white with anger and pain. Shit… is this what John had felt that Boxing Day?  
  
John sat motionless on the bed, still naked. He couldn’t move. He’d said nothing, had not uttered a fucking sound during Paul’s jealous tirade.  
  
Shit.  
  
That bloody party. At Norman Newell’s London home on New Year’s Eve. The ‘For Sale’ LP had been released and was topping the British charts. They did a shitload of daft Christmas shows right before that bash… fuck.  
  
Shit.  
  
John remembered snippets — brief flashes of images that he couldn’t put together right. That fucker Barely must have put something in his drink. John had been boozing, sure. But John wasn’t pissed, not by a long shot. Buzzing, maybe. Beautiful, buxom birds everywhere. Randy as all fucking hell.  
  
Shit.  
  
Drinking with that arsehole on a crowded sofa in the main parlor room, laughing and joking.  
  
That bloke winking at him, getting all fucking cozy… touching John’s leg.  
  
Then nothing.  
  
Blackness.  
  
John woke up sometime later, hastily dressed, shirt buttons in the wrong holes, in some bedroom in Norman’s house. His arse was sore. He’d been fucked, by someone.  
  
And Paul  _watched_. Paul fucking  _watched_. Paul thought John was cheating on him? It was a fucking blessing that John didn’t remember Paul seeing him. Maybe he never did see him.  
  
Fucking hell.  
  
No wonder, in his gut, he needed Paul there for that fucking photo shoot that Eppy insisted they do. Even though that arsehole just wanted to photograph John.  
  
John had just needed Paul there. Didn’t know why he needed him so much at the time, did he?  
  
Just knew he couldn’t go through with it without Paul by his side.  
  
Without Paul’s strength.  
  
Without Paul’s protection.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He’d been raped.  
  
  


 


	21. Chapter 21

_**4\. Trust each other**_  
  
  
 **1967**  
  
Dressed only in a thin white dressing gown and a pair of clean white socks, John leaned back in his wooden chair and took another, long drag off his first morning smoke, a hot cup of tea steaming on the small, white round kitchen table. It must have been before noon, John reckoned; the air was bright and cheerful and too warm already. As his eyes darted about the space, John noticed that the flat wasn’t excessively decorated… just enough of Mo’s feminine touch to make Ritch’s sunny London digs comfortable, with dashes of charm and character.  
  
Shit, he was never awake this fucking early when he was back at Kenwood; despite another sinfully delicious night of lovemaking, the anticipation of the day’s events somehow roused John’s lazy arse out of bed much earlier than anyone would have expected. And without a skull-crushing hangover, morning sunshine wasn’t nearly half-bad, was it?  
  
As he looked around the small, quaint kitchen, John spotted the shiny bronze key perched up on the counter, a ray of sun reflecting off its polished surface. Ritch had given Paul the key to Montague two days ago, despite the fact that Starkey’s spare flat was currently let out to Hendrix for the summer.  
  
Ha! Another sweet reward cause some other sorry prick was forced to go out on bloody tour, John chuckled to himself. No more touring for him! John finally had some privacy now—and Paul—all to him-fucking-self. For another couple of days, until Cyn and Julian got back.  
  
As he carefully sipped his morning cuppa, his glasses fogging up from the steam, John glanced over through the haze on his lenses to the open door of the back bedroom; the sheer curtains let in a cloud of morning light into the back room, piles of pillows and blankets were strewn about the floor beneath the empty bed, discarded carelessly after a long session of adventurous bum loving.  
  
Paul must be in the loo or something.  
  
“Mornin’, John.” The familiar voice from behind his right ear rippled through John’s brain, easing his tender nerves. It was going to be a long day of smiling and posing and nonsense blabber; for now, the skilled fingers that were squeezing and kneading John’s stiff shoulder muscles were bloody addictive.  
  
“Mornin’, luv.”  
  
“Yer up early. Sleep ok?” Paul asked softly.  
  
“A bit. Here and there, ya know.” John watched Paul, in his loose, purple paisley pajama bottoms, saunter over to the small cooker to put on the kettle. John’s eyes drank in the sight of his half-dressed boyfriend, focusing on a soft trail of dark hair that started at the small dimple of Paul’s lower back, winding its way down, under the waistband of his colorful pajamas. Shit, never really noticed that delicious detail before, John smirked to himself.  
  
“ _Must be a new treat that ya grew for me overnight. Ya beautiful, hairy McMonkey.”_  
  
“Insomnia again?” Paul mumbled, barely half awake, as he reached high up in the cupboard for a teacup; his tippy-toe stretch caused the top curve of Paul’s perfect arse to peek over the border of his pajama waistband. John’s eyes narrowed in appreciation at the unexpected bum show.  
  
“Hmm, what? Oh, yeah. Trouble sleeping, the usual.”  
  
“So exactly how hard and long do we ‘ave to fuck for ya to sleep through the night, John?” Paul chided gently, turning around, his dark, furry forearms crossed casually across his pale torso.  
  
“Just keep doin’ what yer doin’, Macca. S’ppose it’ll work someday.” John winked, as he lit another cigarette. “So how’d you sleep, Paul? Got a bit creative there last night, luv… thought ya’d be pretty sore after that. Bit surprised to see ya walking about so, um, normal and all.”  
  
“Normal? Rubbish. I’m fuckin’ aching raw, John. Didn’t figure that ya were so flexible, luv.” Running his fingers through his bedhead of thick black hair, Paul smiled as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, his morning grin flavored with satiated exhaustion. He slowly pulled a plump joint out of his pajama pocket. John tossed him the lighter.  
  
“Don’t worry, Paul. None of the tossers at Brian’s bash will notice yer bum-fucked hobbling. Sides, ya already walk around like ya’ve got a stick up yer arse anyroad.” John chuckled with a smirk, silver teaspoon dangling out of his mouth, eyes twinkling with naughtiness.  
  
“Ta, ya prick.” Paul snorted back. “Gonna be a long fucking day, John. Full of promo shots and dimwit press twits. Are ya ready for it?  
  
“No.” John snapped back quickly, without much of any expression.  
  
“Know what yer wearing yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Really? How ‘bout I pick out an outfit for ya then?”  
  
“That’s just a bit too fucking queer, Paul. Even for you, luv.”  
  
“Ha! You love it. Givin’ up control to me. Ya did last night, didn’t ya? Oh, wait." Paul sat down across the table from John, and pulled out a small white package from a rainbow-colored satchel that was leaning against one of the table legs.  
  
“I gotcha a pressie, John. Here.”  
  
“A present? Why? S’not an anniversary I forgot or something, is it?” John asked, slightly sheepishly.  
  
“No.” Paul chuckled again, very softly, arms still crossed. Slowly he walked over and straddled John’s lap, after untying John’s gown belt, of course.  
  
“No reason. Just saw it in a shop and thought it would look good on ya. Reminded me of ya, Johnny. That’s all.” Paul whispered the words in John’s left ear, as he ground his silk covered sack against John’s naked, hardening cock.  
  
Fuck, no one ever got John presents without a reason—only for birthdays, or number one records, or something. Some accomplishment to warrant a gift, an event above and beyond John just being able to survive in this world as John fucking Lennon.  
  
No one got John presents without a reason, except Paul. Only his dark-haired partner, his secret lover, got John whimsical gifts out of the blue. Though Stu did once too, what with that painting he’d left for John back in Hamburg all those years ago. But Sutcliffe’s painting was about him and Paul, wasn’t it?  
  
Shit, everything in John’s life was about Paul.  
  
John’s life was Paul.  
  
John opened the carefully wrapped present slowly, one eye fixed on his lover’s complacent, chipmunk smile. Pulling back the tissue paper, John turned the leather object over in his hand.  
  
“What is it? A sex toy?”  
  
Paul fell over, cackling with exaggerated, pot-flavored hysterics. Much too fucking early for stoned Maccasterics, John winced.  
  
“No, it’s not a bloody sex toy! Well, hold on. I dunno, maybe it could be used in someway…” Paul fingered the gift, cracking himself up again, choking on his own infectious laugh, while John waited impatiently for him to collect himself, tapping his spoon on the wooden table.  
  
“It’s… it’s a talisman, John. For good luck and prosperity and all that shit. It’s s’pposed to be magical. Well, that’s what the old bint in that bizarre voodoo store said, anyroad.”  
  
“Ya ‘spect me to wear this thing? In public? A fucking necklace?”  
  
“Yeah, yer gonna wear it in public cause I gave it to ya, ya gorgeous shit! It’s a present from me, John, the love of yer life.” Paul’s voice dropped to a sexy whisper. “Wear it today, right? For the Pepper launch. And then tonight, I’ll strip ya down naked, and ya can wear only yer magical amulet for me. A private fashion show, ya know?”  
  
“Christ. Fuck, Paul. Yer a right pain in the arse sometimes. Ok, I’ll wear it, Paul.” John paused. “If ya do something for me, luv.”  
  
Shit.  
  
“What could I possibly fucking do that I haven’t already done to you, and that caterpillar moustache of yers, in the past twelve hours, John?” Paul laughed, leaning back and mindlessly fondling his own crotch through the silky paisley fabric.  
  
John leaned towards him, suddenly serious. “Drop a hit with me for the party.”  
  
“Shit, John. This is an official press event. The bloody veins in Brian’s temples would explode if he found out we dropped acid before the Pepper launch shin-dig.”  
  
“Fuck ‘im. It’s our album, luv. It’s our bloody launch party of our fucking brilliant album, Paul. We’ll be fine. I’ll be there. Trust me, ok?”  
  
Paul sighed, recognizing that determined, I-don’t-give-a-fuck, hypnotic sparkle in John’s eyes, glowing like embers behind his round wire specs.  
  
Shit.  
  
“Half a hit, ok?”  
  
“Yer such a bloody bird sometimes, Paul.”  
  
“Half a hit s’all I’m doing, ya bastard. Hand it over!”  
  
“Not now, Paul. Fuck, with yer bird-sized hit, ya’ll be sober before the LP party even starts. I’ll give it to ya in the car. Me and stachy ‘ere will give ya a couple of things in the car. Stachy knows what ya like, doesn't he?” John smirked, waggling his eyebrows and pursing his lips.  
  
“I’m not driving through fucking London on acid, John.”  
  
“S’alright. I’ll drive yer fancy car.”  
  
“Not bloody likely, Mr. Magoo!” Paul laughed through a rough cough. “Call for yer car to come pick us up, ok? We’ll just relax in the back seat.”  
  
“I love relaxing in your back seat, darlin’.”  
  
Paul took another long, deep toke, his lips curved in a lusty smile around the girth of his fat Macca-joint. “Hot bath after tea?”  
  
“Yeah, a bath sounds perfect. Gimme a hit off that joint first, Paul.”  
  
“Yeah? C’mere. Shotgun it with me.” Paul smirked as he leaned in.  
  
“Shit, you fuckin’ turn everythin’ into sex, don’t ya?” John growled and chuckled at the same time, as he grabbed Paul by the hair, pulling his lips forward within an inch of John’s furry smile. Paul blew the rich, earthy smoke into John’s open, waiting mouth.  
  
“I love ya, John. I love ya so fucking much.”  
  
“Hmm…” John exhaled. “Love you, darling.” The shotgun turned into a long, hungry tongue fuck, as John lips took control of Paul’s warm mouth, his nimble hands groping Paul’s round arse through the soft paisley cloth. Paul wrinkled his nose at the itchy tickle of John’s thick moustache.  
  
“Now, finish yer cuppa and let’s go get ya soaped up. Time to get yer arse crack all spanky and shiny for Eppy’s next circus freak show, beautiful boy.”  
  
“John?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
Paul leaned forward and tied the leather straps of the talisman amulet around John's neck.  
  
“Wear me gift today, luv. Oh, and could ya shave off that wooly lip pet of yers, soon?”  
  
~~~~~~  
  
 **1960**  
  
“John?”  
  
“Eh?”  
  
“Your leg in the front —can you move it to the left more, John, bitte?”  
  
Chilled to the bone despite his leather jacket and old denim jeans, John begrudgingly shifted his arse on top of the rusted, cold bonnet of a German lorry in the middle of that dreary Hamburg fairgrounds, trying to find the position that would satisfy this cute Astrid bird they’d recently met at the Kaiserkeller. It was another overcast, depressing day in gloomy Hamburg Fuck, they might as well be back in Liverpool, for shit’s sake.  
  
 _“Should ‘ave worn yer jumper instead of this flimsy shit t-shirt, ya daft prick!”_ John moaned to himself, as another frigid wave of goose bumps ran up the muscles of his back.  
  
Lennon just wanted to end this shoot and get warm. He figured he could warm himself up quite nicely inside this petite blonde bird,give her a good knee trembler up against the wall over there, but her black camera lens was fixed on Stu, eyes shielded behind his dark, unnecessary sunglasses, his over-sized bass draped over his slight shoulder, more like a costume accessory than a real, breathing instrument.  
  
“How’s that, luv?” The auburn-haired musician groaned, running his fingers through his quiff of curls with a look of annoyance.  
  
“Wunderbar! Good, John.”  
  
Click. Click.  
  
“Cor! That’s a brilliant one, Astrid.” Paul chimed enthusiastically from behind the crouching blonde photographer, bouncing in his heels and leaning over her left shoulder, trying in vain to peek into the camera viewfinder like a greedy child searching for a favorite sweet at the local grocers.  
  
“Why the fuck are we sittin’ on grotty lorries with our guitars? Well, what does this ‘ave to do with anythin’? Makes no fuckin’ sense. Does it, John?” George griped, annoyed at the damp cold, and the ever-present hunger pains that had gripped his bottomless, seventeen year old gut ever since they’d arrived in Germany.  
  
“Shut the ‘ell up, ‘arrison. It’s a visual metaphor. Shit, it’s fuckin’ art, ya unschooled twat!” Stu barked back over his shoulder, ever aggravated with the George’s high-pitched, teenage bellyaching. Despite Harrison’s obvious talents on the guitar, Stu still didn’t entirely understand why John had let the snot-dripping, toothy git join the band in the first place. Christ, the nappie-clad virgin wasn’t even old enough to play gigs in the strip clubs on the wicked Reeperbahn. Bloody hell.  
  
And what the fuck did that whore McCartney think he was doing, getting all close and cozy with Astrid like that?  
  
“Fancy yerself a bloody photographer now, McCartney? Why don’t ya bugger off, and let Astrid work without yer noisy, poof gob in her way?” Stu shouted in jealous irritation. Shit, Sutcliffe just wanted to get away from his band mates, especially that bird-faced McCartney, and go off somewhere. Anywhere Alone with her. Get to know this lovely Astrid better and all. Talk about art and shit.  
  
“Sod off, Sutcliffe, ya talentless prat!” Paul hollered back with a laugh, winking to John, who was mildly entertained by all the raucous banter, despite the cold. Course, Lennon couldn’t really see Paul’s wink or any of Paul’s features, for shit’s sake, not without his specs. But then again blind John didn’t need to actually see Paul clearly to picture, in his mind, all those delicious expressions that beautiful face made with each syllable uttered out of that perfect mouth.  
  
As he sat there holding his uncomfortable pose, teeth beginning to chatter from the autumn chill, John’s myopic eyes lingered over the fuzzy image of Paul, a dozen or so feet away, in his old warm, woolen blazer and high-collared knit shirt. Daydreaming, as he most often did, John caressed the vivid mental image of Paul’s sweet lad package, conjuring up a world of tastes and smells and sounds…  
  
“Oi, Johnny! Astrid’s capturing yer last day as a teenager ‘ere, ya filthy ol’ codger!” Paul shouted, with a flirtatious smirk.  
  
Shit. His birthday was tomorrow.  
  
Fucking twenty years old. With nothing to bloody show for it ‘cept the band—and Paul. He had Paul. For now, anyroad.  
  
The beautiful lad had promised him a special pressie. Better even than last year, Paul had said.  
  
Where? Not in their shared, double-bunk shithole at the Kino.  
  
Fuck, they had no bleeding privacy in Hamburg. Ever. It was worse than Liverpool, for Christ’s sake! Least back home they had bedrooms with doors.  
  
“John? You must look now to the right, ja?”  
  
“Ya nearly done, right, darlin’?” His shivering voice dropped to a gravelly growl, as John grew increasingly irritable, the cold breeze biting through his black cotton shirt.  
  
“Astrid, luv? Why don’t we take a short break?" Paul spoke softly, and then whispered into her delicate left ear, “John needs a rest, Astrid. And somethin’ to warm ‘im up. Ja, luv?”  
  
Astrid turned, her dark eyes melting at the closeness of Paul’s soothing mouth. “But the light, Paul? It is so good now…”  
  
“Light’s not gonna matter if John darkens his mood on ya, Astrid.” Paul warned, in his most gentle, most seductive way, his eyebrows raised in unison below his forelock of dark, greased curls.  
  
Stu’s hands automatically clenched into fists as he watched Paul’s full lips dangerously close to Astrid’s beautiful face, as he watched the blonde artist begin to dissolve into McCartney’s heavy-lidded, sultry eyes.  
  
“Let’s stop for a bit, Astrid.” Stu interrupted forcefully, now desperate to disrupt the secret prattle going on between his new bird interest… and that fucking skirt chasing, wench of a slut McCartney. “S’cold out ‘ere, luv. There must be a pub or somethin’ round ‘ere where we can get a hot cuppa.”  
  
The shivering troupe of leather, denim and wool soon found themselves and their cold instruments tucked away inside a nearby, small restaurant, cups overflowing with hot coffee and German biscuits. John sat with his mates, minus that boring arsehole Best, and with their new German bird friend, in the tight booth; his aching body finally felt relaxed and warmed. John had one, leather-clad arm casually slung over Paul’s shoulders in blatant comfort. Laughter and the rich smells of strong German coffee and sweet pastries filled the comfy air.  
  
“Shit. I could use a kip, Paul.” John whispered with a ragged chuckle into Paul’s ear.  
  
“Hmm… Yeah, well yer an old geezer now, aren’t ya? Young lad that I am—I could use a kiss, luv.” Paul snickered near John’s sideboard softly, well below the noise of George’s loud laughter, positive that no one but John had heard him.  
  
“Outside then?” John whispered back, a glint of lust in his eyes, as Paul squeezed his boyfriend’s left thigh underneath the booth table… just above the knee, at that sensitive spot that made John’s whole body shudder. Fuck, Paul loved that control.  
  
“We’re off for a quick smoke. Need to discuss tonight’s set and all.” Paul announced, rising quickly, and scooting his voluptuous, eighteen year old arse out of the tight booth seat. He chuckled silently to himself, as he thought about the special birthday present that he had arranged for John for tomorrow night.  
  
 _"Shit, that was gonna be right fucking brilliant."_  Paul snorted silently.  
  
A few minutes after John and Paul left, Astrid still sat in the restaurant booth in distracted silence, barely understanding a word that Stu and George were rapidly babbling, their scouse accents murky now with slang. Astrid was itchy with creative energy, with the excitement of photographing these young, foreign musicians. She needed to get up. Maybe, she thought, she could capture the perfect, candid shot of John and Paul. Smoking outside. Side by side, backs leaning up against some wall. Talking about music, and girls, and dreams of the future. A candid shot.  
  
“Excuse me, Stu. I must get up, ja?” Astrid grabbed her camera and headed off in the direction of the ladies loo, until she was out of sight, quickly turning and ducking out of the café.  
  
No one outside the front entrance.  
  
Astrid turned left, down the narrow street next to the brick restaurant building.  
  
Empty.  
  
Walking quietly down the shaded block, Astrid turned left again, finding herself at the opening of a back alley that ran behind the café.  
  
And there they were.  
  
 _“Heilige Scheiße!”_  
  
She cursed silently, and bolted backwards around the corner, out of view. Had they seen her? Surely, not.  
  
Well then, leave already. Clearly John and Paul didn’t want to be found. Clearly.  
  
But she couldn’t. Astrid fucking wanted that picture. Needed to capture that extraordinary image that her own brown eyes had just seen. She just had to freeze it forever, for some insane reason that she couldn’t explain, even to herself.  
  
Click.  
  
“What the fuck was that?” John rumbled, as he pulled his mouth off Paul’s needy lips.  
  
“Dunno. Don’t care. A cat, or something. C’mon, luv. Give yer mouth back to me. We’ve only a few more minutes.”  
  
With his head turned towards the light at the end of the dim alley, John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he licked his chapped lips; Paul roughly cupped his angular jaw, and pulled John’s face back round to his hungry tongue. Quickly they resumed their snogging positions… arms snaked under shirts, fingers entangled in hair and leather, Paul’s left leg wrapped around John’s calves, bulges grinding teasingly in rhythm. A back alley appetizer for later…  
  
Maybe.  
  
No fucking privacy here. Ever.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
That night, four soaked musicians, stinking of leather and sweat and ciggies, stumbled back into their dive of a hole of a storeroom at the Kino, drained and buzzing from beer and another grueling, electric five hour set. Stu was missing, though. He was off with Astrid, for a late night of cooing and wooing and existential German philosophy.  
  
As they stripped off their rocker uniforms, none of the four lads spoke. Their throats were raw and near collapse from pissed weariness. George and Pete scampered up clumsily to their top bunks, while Paul and John undressed, facing each other, eyes stuck in that lock of a gaze, seducing and tormenting themselves from across the narrow, dim space. They were so close that they could reach over and touch… but not here. Not with Harrison and Best barely asleep in the same fucking room.  
  
Reluctantly, the two bottom bunkers crawled under the feeble covers of their separate shit beds, their eye lock unbroken.  
  
Best let out a loud, obnoxious rip of a snore. Bloody hell.  
  
John mouthed ‘night’ without a sound and rolled over, turning away from Paul’s gaze with a soft grunt of frustration, to face the filthy, floral papered wall. As the strobe of the cinema lights danced around the room, Paul watched the familiar movements of John’s back muscles rippling underneath his tight, white t-shirt, as John tossed himself off, slowly at first. Silently.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Without a sound, Paul scurried over to John’s kip and slid under the covers, deftly wrapping an arm under and around John’s waist, covering his boyfriend’s open mouth with his left hand.  
  
“Sshhh. Quiet, luv.” John could barely hear Paul’s words in his ear, as his face struggled weakly under Paul’s strong grasp.  
  
“Quiet, right?”  
  
John nodded under Paul’s firm grip, trying to catch his breath, as Paul’s left hand loosened its gag hold and slipped down, over John’s firm stomach, under the waistband of John’s Y-fronts, pushing John’s wanking hand out of the way. John slid his underpants down to his knees. He only had a few pair of clean pants, ya know? No point in getting lad batter all over them.  
  
As he stroked and squeezed his squirming, silent boyfriend closer and closer, Paul breathed heavily into John’s sideboard, swirling the sticky precum over the head of John’s swollen cock, flicking gently at his delicate slit. Paul slowly lifted his left thumb, moist with John, and sucked the slippery drops off as John turned to watch, barely suffocating another lustful growl.  
  
Stay fucking quiet. No noise, John.  
  
Paul pushed his own underwear down, and began rubbing his throbbing prick against the sensitive, hot skin of John’s bum crack, humping him like a stray mongrel. The sensations of Paul’s hand pumping him in rhythm with Paul’s prick grinding against his arse were too much…  
  
 _“Just bloody fuck me…”_  John groaned to himself, remembering what it felt like to have Paul’s hard cock actually penetrate him for the first time, in that bloody van.  
  
Shit.  
  
John threw his wet-haired head back against Paul’s shoulder, holding on to the building orgasm as long as fucking possible, before finally exploding into Paul’s rough palm, barely able to contain the cry that threatened to erupt from the back of his throat. Instead of noise, John’s ecstatic scream flowed out through his lips as a long, silent breath of bliss. A sweet exhale of release.  
  
Seconds later, Paul roughly lifted John’s t-shirt and burst noiselessly all over the small of John’s sweaty back. He only uttered a soft moan into John’s ear, as his full balls clenched in waves of spasms, drenching his own smooth stomach and John’s lower spine in warm Macca milk.  
  
Bit messy… but bloody delicious, Paul chuckled to himself, as the trembling fingers of his left hand began to lazily draw circle patterns with their salty cream over the swells and hollows of John’s lower back.  
  
 _“I love you, Paul.”_  John mouthed silently to the pinkish-brown roses of the dingy wallpaper. It was a private declaration, purposefully out of sight of Paul’s half-closed, satisfied eyes.  
  
Above the two spent, spooning boyfriends, one brown eye slowly opened from underneath his dark brow, awakened by the shaking vibrations and muffled sounds that rumbled up from the bottom bunk.  
  
 _"Shit. Lennon fucked wanked, again."_  
  
Bloody fucking hell, George fumed, as he threw his slender forearm over his eyes to try and block some of that flashing cinema light.  
  
Shit.  
  
He shouldn’t be here. George should be with a beautiful kraut bird of his own, like Sutcliffe, instead of riding the bunk’s rocking rhythms brought on by his masturbating bandleader.  
  
He bloody needed to lose his virginity. Fucking yesterday!  
  
George closed his eyes, and shoved his right hand quickly under the cotton fabric of his own Y-fronts. As the top bunk started to shake, Paul giggled very softly into John’s ear.  
  
“Wanker.” John whispered, to no one.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
The sun was just setting over the port city, when Paul led John down yet another street in this posh Hamburg neighborhood. It was John’s birthday, and they had the night off, thanks to Paul’s irresistible charm and several empty promises to Bruno. The dangerous mobster clearly fancied pretty Paul, hopeless to deny the stunning English boy much of anything… another advantage of having his beautiful boyfriend in the band, John reckoned.  
  
“Almost there. C’mon, luv.” Paul encouraged, dressed full out in his black leather gear and dark turtleneck jumper.  
  
“This better be fuckin’ worth it, Macca. Feels like we’ve been walking for a dozen fuckin’ miles.”  
  
“We ‘ave!” The dark-haired boy just laughed. “It’ll be worth it, John. Trust me, ok?” Paul snorted again, just before they turned the corner. “Now close yer eyes.”  
  
John huffed as he put his hand over his glasses, allowing Paul to guide him by the elbow of his grey wool jacket around the street corner.  
  
“Ta-da!”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Ta-da!” Paul exclaimed again, with even more flourish.  
  
“Ya got me a bleedin’ building? How the fuck am I gonna pack that in me luggage?” John sneered with confusion, his tired feet aching inside his boots, his cock randy as all fucking hell.  
  
“Ah! It’s what’s inside that posh building, luv. Take a guess.”  
  
“No.” John stood expressionless.  
  
“C’mon, take a guess, will ya?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Shit, John. Yer such a fuckin’ stubborn prick sometimes! See up there at the top? Those windows with the darker curtains? That there is an empty, private flat. And see this? This is the key to that flat! And I’d wager it has a big, comfortable bed, yeah?”  
  
Paul leaned over, slightly touching John’s earlobe with his lips.  
  
“A real fuckin’ bed, John. With feather pillows and thick covers and...”  
  
“How the fuck?” John shook his head, chuckling in amazement, as the realization of Paul’s present grabbed him by the balls.  
  
“Tsk. Tsk. I ‘ave me ways, ya know.” Paul snorted, one finger wagging with pride, the other hand grabbing John’s elbow a bit tighter.  
  
“We can use that posh flat? For the night?” John’s eyes were noticeably wider and brighter behind his thick lenses, his lips parted in unabashed, child-like delight.  
  
“For the whole fuckin’ night, luv. And guess what else, darlin’?”  
  
“What?” John twinkled. He was enjoying this little teasing Macca game.  
  
“It’s got a real fuckin’ bath! With all the hot water ya can soak yer beautiful arse in. Now let’s go up there and get ya all washed up. I know how ya love to be all squeaky clean, proper English lad that ya are.” Paul hummed, his young face wrinkled and crinkled in a broad, beaming smile.  
  
John fucking loved his private bed and bath pressie. It was bloody perfect, just as Paul had known in his heart that it would be. Paul knew that John bloody ached to scrub his body, especially after weeks of hastily washing off in the sinks of the stinking public loo at the Bambi Kino.  
  
And Paul so fucking loved the fact that that his dirty-mouthed, shithead of a ted boyfriend preferred to be a tidy lad, all fresh and soapy smelling… it was just another one of those bloody contradictions that made John—well, John.  
  
“S’perfect, Paul. Best pressie I’ve ever had, ever, luv.” John’s voice cracked slightly with wonder, as he gazed up at the top windows.  
  
 _"How the fuck did Paul always pull this kind of shit off?"_  
  
“Yeah, tis.” Paul sang back over his shoulder, in smug satisfaction, walking with a slight prance in his step towards the ornate building, flashing the dangling brass key in one hand.  
  
“Come ‘ead, then, birthday boy!”


	22. Chapter 22

__

_**9\. Don’t fight change** _   
  


**1962**   
  


Dripping wet with sweat, hunkered down in the dark bowels of the club with his guitar, John watched the hushed crowd on the sticky floor below the stage, swaying back and forth together, as if they were all one continuous, hair-sprayed bouffant; birds of all shapes and sizes, rocked in unison, mesmerized with the alluring lads on display. They were hypnotized by his band—by him.  
  
As he strummed along to the show tune ballad, streams of warm perspiration rolled down his back, under John’s black T-shirt and his comfortable leather jacket, seeping down in rivlets under the waistband of his tight leather trousers. That’s what this stinking place is, John mused… an underground furnace of smoke and sweat and sex and noise—a cave of lust, where he and Paul and their music fueled a fiery hunger for something… anything… that was different. Hunger for change, John reckoned, from these kids’ predetermined, predictable, shitty little lives.  
  
Near the front of the devoted mob, John soon spotted a pretty brunette thing. He unconsciously licked his lips, as his prick twitched with interest… nice tits, even sweeter arse, he noticed. She glanced up at him, briefly flashing an out-of-focus, seductive smile, before turning her face, and her complete attention, back to the singer on the left side of the stage. Without hesitation, his piercing eyes slowly followed the line of her sight.  
  
 _“Shit. If these birds only knew. If they had any bloody clue what crotch-ripping shivers McCartney’s lips can really deliver…”_  
  
Completely distracted by the sight of his bassist, John cocked up a chord.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Paul in his full-out leather gear  _was_  a sight. The tips of his dark locks clumped and soaked with sweat, sticking to the sides of his face and neck, his round cheeks shiny with drops of dampness, his lips impossibly moist, his eyes heavy with the lust of performing. A natural born entertainer, that fucking Paul, John hummed to himself with an almost proud grin. As Paul slid his sweet voice into the second chorus of the fruity ballad, his full mouth nearly wrapped around the head of the microphone, John found himself fucking astonished, once again, by his boyfriend’s beauty, as spellbound as the rest of the Cavern regulars. Shit, he was just another fucking besotted fangirl, Lennon realized, as his eyes lingered over the perfection of Paul’s face, over the flawless image that Paul projected so effortlessly.  
  
Feeling the famliar burn of John’s eyes on his skin, Paul turned, and tossed his best mate a warm, affectionate grin, before spinning back to face the girls, now squirming clammy in their knickers for his attention. He reckoned that he’d nail one of these birds after the show… bang one of them somewhere… or perhaps just stick his cock down the throat of old dependable Dot. Didn’t matter. It all worked, as far as Paul was concerned. Fuck, he was randy as all hell!  
  
At the side of the steaming stage stood a posh, awkward outsider—an alien from a different world, really—the man who now controlled their schedules, their wages, their lives, their fucking clothes, for shit’s sake. Bloody Epstein, bopping his head to and fro, always out of sync with rhythmic beat of the music. Stupid twit.  
  
 _“He’d better be spot fuckin’ on about these bloody suits, the tight-arsed queer.”_ John fumed silently, spotting the uncomfortable, well-dressed businessman out of the corner of his blind eye. He wasn’t sure about this Epstein bloke just yet. John still had serious doubts about this radical image change. The birds clearly adored them in their leather rocker outfits. Christ, most of them went home after a gig with their pretty heads spinning fantasties of peeling tight animal skin and sweat-soaked cotton off whatever Beatle they fancied most that night.  
  
“Brian says it s’not professional, John. The leather gear, the smoking on stage, the fuckin’ about."  
  
Paul had convinced John to finally accept this latest Epstein reinvention a little over a fortnight ago, in between breaths, as they stole forceful, illegal kisses in some hidden, nowhere Liverpool jigger.  
  
“Poof’s fuckin’ dressin’ us now, Paul!” John growled beneath the surface his desperate moan, brushing a rogue lock of hair out of Paul’s eyes. “Like a set of his mum’s porcelain dolls. Gettin’ right prickish bossy, eh?”  
  
“Yeah, s’ppose so… but Brian’s got a point, ya know.” Paul lips roughly sucked on John’s famished mouth. “Bands in leather never ‘ave gotten the really big recordin’ contracts, luv.”  
  
“Bollocks! Elvis wore leather!” John vigorously shoved his tongue deep into Paul’s waiting mouth. Paul had to fight to catch his breath before he could speak again.  
  
“Presley wore an army uniform as well, John. S’ides, we’re not Elvis, are we? We’re… I dunno… different than ‘im. Different than anyone.”  
  
Paul descended on John’s lips again, stroking John’s cheek stubble with the back of his right hand, grabbing a fistful of maple locks with his left.  
  
John pulled back for a quick gasp of air, eyes narrowed in defiance.  
  
“We’re the fuckin’ best group in Liverpool, Paul—and this Epstein bastard better get us bleedin’ rich, what with us wearin’ his queer outfits and ties and…”  
  
Eye to eye they locked, tips of their nosing touching with electricity. Typical battle stance these days, especially effective when Paul was seducing his boyfriend to let go, and just surrender to McCartney’s stubborn optimism… to jump down into the rabbit hole… Paul’s fucking rabbit hole.  
  
“He will… I mean, we will… John. Brian’s only the manager, luv. The poor sod stuck with taking care of all of the daft shit, the crap we don’t wanna be bothered with—the business shit, the contracts, fuckin’ promoters and record blokes and the like.”  
  
“Cor, Paul. But matching, daft poof suits? Like the fuckin’ awful plastic Shadows? Bloody ‘ell!” John griped once more, breathing deeply and rapidly, as he broke off their eye-fuck and stared down at his boots. John’s silky voice was torn with acquiescence, weakened by defeat.  
  
Shit.  
  
Paul clearly heard the pained resignation in John’s tone; it cracked his heart to think that his brilliant, gorgeous shithead of a boyfriend would have to change who he was in order to make this dream of theirs an actual fucking possibility.  
  
Cartloads of shit would have to change.  
  
Fuck.  
  
And now here they were, playing at the Cavern, offering up their big send-off show for the local fan club before leaving for Hamburg yet again, before returning to see their exis German friends and artsy, arsehole Sutcliffe.  
  
Still somewhat breathless after his ballad crooning, Paul swiped away the buckets of salty sweat streaming down his brow with the sleeve of his leather jacket, flirtatiously flicking the drops at the front row of birds.  
  
“Thank you! Thank you all very much. Great tune, that one. Right then. Now… um… we’re gonna take a short break. And, yeah. We’ll be back in a bit, ok?”  
  
As the drenched musicians hurried off the small club stage towards the dressing room for the big costume change, John grabbed Paul by the sleeve of his jacket, whispering into his ear softly.  
  
“Let’s slip off, luv. Soon as we can, before the next set. For a smoke, yeah?”  
  
Paul nodded, with a quick wink; their code word for a quick snog and some heavy grinding caused his prick to jerk and stiffen under the constraint of his tight, strangling leather.  
  
“Alright, boys. This is a momentous occasion on your journey to stardom! Everyone have everything they need?”  
  
With the band jammed together into the tight Cavern dressing room, Brian stood at the door, nearly bouncing in his expensive formal shoes, glowing at the prospect of seeing his scruffy lads all tidy and prettied up again. Unfortunately for Epstein, his enthusiasm fell flat; all four lads simply stared at their new manager, wiping off the sweat from their wet faces with small, smelly towels. No one said a word, as they exchanged furtive glances… waiting for John to speak.  
  
“We’re fine, Epstein. Now sod the fuck off. Yer not watching us strip down and change into yer monkey suits, ya filthy perv!” John barked with a definite, unmistakable bite and a sadistic sneer. Brian’s balls ached in humiliation.  
  
“Very good, John. Yes, of course. Holler if you need anything. Oh, now do you boys remember how to fix your ties properly?”  
  
“Get the fuck out!”  
  
Brian lowered his gaze and sighed, trying to mask one last stolen glance at John’s bulging leather package, before slipping away, down the dim corridor.  
  
Without another sound, the bandleader marched over to the matching suits, hung carefully on the wall by Brian like precious theater attire. Grabbing two of the outfits, he turned round and began to nudge Paul out of the dressing room.  
  
“Oi! Where ya two off to then?” George questioned with annoyance, pissed off at the prospect of being stuck alone with Pete, again.  
  
“Gonna clean up a bit before we change.”  
  
“I need to wash up.” George yelped, bushy eyebrows raised enthusiastically.  
  
“Stay ‘ere, ‘arrison. You can wash yer skinny arse off after me and Paul are finished. Got it?” John’s command was dark and dangerous, not to be challenged. George got it.  
  
“Prick.” George huffed under his breath, as he peeled the tight T-shirt up over his head, tossing it too the floor of the dressing room in frustration.  
  
As they walked down the narrow corridor, Paul in front of John, the bassist looked back over his shoulder, lust burning in his dark eyes.  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Storeroom, luv.” John murmured quietly into Paul’s damp hair.  
  
“Oh, yeah, right.”  
  
Once Paul opened the door to the small room full of random rubbish that no one ever seemed to use, John gently pushed him up against the back wall, knocking over a mop in a bucket, crashing it to the floor with a loud bang.  
  
“Ssshhh, will ya, Macca?”  
  
“You fuckin’ wrecked it, not me!”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, luv.” John demanded with a raspy snarl, as he pushed Paul’s leather jacket off his shoulders, letting it drop to the dirty floor. Paul’s head hit the back wall with a soft thud, as John quickly undid Paul’s belt and stripped his boyfriend of his tight trousers.  
  
“I… I… um…thought we were just catching a quick snog.”  
  
“Thought wrong again, darling.”  
  
“John! Shit. There’s no time!”  
  
“We’ll make time. I need you, Paul. And if you and that queer fucker are gonna make me wear this suit shit, you’re gonna give me that tight arse of yers before I put on one more fuckin’ piece of this poof costume again. Got it?”  
  
Paul got it. He turned around, palms braced for support, forehead pressed against the grotty plastered wall, eye closed in anticipation, his round arse stuck out for John’s taking.  
  
“I love ya for doin’ this… for the band… for our future, ya know?” Paul moaned.  
  
“I’m doin’ this for you, Paul. Cause I trust ya… love ya.”  
  
“Ta, luv. Now fuck me. I’m so bloody ready… watching ya there on stage in front of the birds, sweating and playing and…  
  
John pulled the tube of lube out of his jacket pocket. Paul was right. They’d have to hurry this. Shit.  
  
“Spread ‘em further, babe.”  
  
Paul readjusted his legs, his forehead pressing harder against the wall, his breath caught in his gut.  
  
“Mmm, perfect.” John let his hands greedily caress over the firm mounds of Paul’s perfect arse, before pulling down his zipper and pulling out his aching throbber.  
  
“C’mon, luv. I can’t hold on much longer. Please…”  
  
“Love ya, ya fuckin’ beautiful slut.”  
  
“Love ya too, John. So goddamn much.” John could barely hear Paul’s passionate whisper of a declaration, as he thrust his rock-hard cock into his best friend’s greased bum… into the warmth and excruciating tightness of his lover, into his only soulmate, the only gift that God had ever given poor, pathetic John fucking Lennon, or so he believed, in his youthful stupidity.  
  
“Fuck. Shit.” Paul gasped in waves of pleasure tinged with flickers of pain. John quickly wrapped both slick palms around Paul’s cock and pumped him hard. “God, that’s… fuck, John.”  
  
John’s head fell against Paul’s left shoulder, as the snug sweetness of Paul enveloped his pulsing prick. Hell, this was amazing. Bloody addictive… better than any snatch he’d ever impaled. John thrust into his secret lover, slowly and deeply.  
  
They’d have to hurry this. Shit.  
  
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Paul!” John muffled the scream of his quick release by biting hard into Paul’s shoulder muscle; Paul gasped and bit down his own forearm in ecstacy, trying desparately to stay quiet. Not really succeeding all that bloody well, though.  
  
“Ssshh, Paul.” John groaned, as his withdrew his teeth from Paul’s flesh. “Ssshh, baby. Shit, I fuckin’ love ya.”  
  
Paul cried out, his whole body momentarily rigid, and then collapsed back into John’s strong embrace, spurting shots of cum over the grimy surface of the storeroom wall. Fucking amazing.  
  
John spun his nearly naked, satiated boyfriend around, grabbing Paul's trembling, soaked face with both hands, kissing him with every ounce of passion that his had left in his own drained body. Panting, Paul relunctantly broke the kiss to speak.  
  
“Shit. I love ya, John. I love ya for doing this. For wearin' the suit, luv.”  
  
“I know, baby.”  
  
Daft, matching suits wouldn’t be so bloody terrible, Lennon reckoned. Change was part of life, after all. Don’t fight it, he told himself, as he let his own worn leather jacket slip off his shaking shoulders, and fall carelessly to the filthy storeroom floor.  
  


~~~~~~  
  


 **1968 (New York City)**  
  
Nat pulled his blue Cadillac up to the curb in front of the elegant entrance to his posh, upper eastside New York apartment building, just an hour or so before dawn that chilly mid-May night. The rain had stopped, and the asphalt streets were shiny with blackness. As he put the car in park, he couldn’t help but grin at the constant giggling come from the back seat… two of the most famous, most talented men in the whole world were snickering and tickling each other in the back seat, like silly school girls, completely wasted from the strong hashish that freaky Howard had supplied them back at that club in the Village.  
  
Nat knew he shouldn’t have brought them to Hash Howard’s drug den disco, but John had insisted that they need some serious laughs to survive this bloody Apple Corps press junket. With his seductive, reassuring smile, Paul had eventually convinced Weiss that he and John could handle it just fine, that they’d be awake and alert for the press interviews later in the afternoon the next day. They were pros at this, after all, and they’d slept most of that day anyway, anticipating a long night of partying and relaxation in The Big Apple.  
  
Weiss glanced down at his Cartier watch.  
  
Holy crap!  
  
It was already that next day.  
  
Nat turned to look at Neil next to him in the front seat, the street lights illuminating Aspinall’s gaunt features. Neil’s eyes were closed with exhaustion; his thinning head of hair settled back against the leather seat rest. Fuck. He looked at least a decade older than his short twenty-six years. How insane it must be to be that guy, Nat thought… the trusted caretaker of these two secret lovers… the confidant in charge of discreetly sneaking John and Paul in and out of exclusive clubs and trendy discos like the Salvation, supplying them with every ethereal whim and mind-numbing substance, without question—without hesitation—without a whiff of judgement. Lennon and McCartney were fucking lucky to have a life-long mate like Neil.  
  
As he nudged Aspinall to wake up, Nat shook his head in disbelief and in sadness. What would poor Brian have thought of all of this? Would he have protected his precious boys differently or better than Nat could? Better than even their devoted Liverpudlian friend could?  
  
“Neil, wake up!”  
  
Jolted out of his brief slumber, Neil shook with a spasm.  
  
“What? What’s goin’ on?”  
  
“We’re here at my apartment. Time to get these two stoned lovebirds to bed. Here’s my key. Take care of it, ok? The doorman just gave me the hand signal. It’s all clear to take them upstairs.”  
  
Neil rubbed his eyes, forcing them open. “Yeah, right. Ta, Nat.”  
  
“No problem. Be sure to have them lock the door. Double-check.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Nighty-night, Natty!” John cackled from the back seat, before stepping out of Weiss’ sedan on to the dark, damp New York City street. It smelled like spring. A new beginning to another brilliant year. John took a deep breath, hungrily inhaling the thick soup of city smells.  
  
“Thanks for the great night out, Nat. We fuckin’ owe ya, mate.” Paul added, with a stoned thumbs-up, as he bent over in hysterics, leaning against John for support out on the pavement next to the parked car.  
  
“Go to bed, you hear me! Long day today, you two.”  
  
“Yes, sir! We intend to go straight to bed. Right, John?”  
  
Paul saluted, as he wrapped one arm possessively around John’s waist; John grinned stupidly, flashed Nat the finger, and pulled Paul closer, kissing him sloppily on the temple, rubbing his nose into Paul’s hair.  
  
Shit.  
  
It was almost over.  
  
And no one knew it.  
  
Except for dead Stu.  
  
Invisibly pale and forever handsome, wearing his favorite brown, woolen coat and unnecessary sunglasses.  
  
Leaning casually against the doorjamb of Nat’s New York apartment building.  
  
Waiting for them.  
  
Waiting for the unavoidable end of JohnandPaul.  
  


**1968 (the day afer the press conference in NYC)**   
  


“Yer not really gonna fuckin’ wear that, are ya, Paul? Ya look like a bloody tramp, some dosser kippin’ in the shrubs.” John snickered, as he put on his oversized white hat and fiddled around with his tie, sunglasses dangling by an arm from the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Sod off… luv. Yes, I’m wearing this disguise. It’s perfect. No one will ever recognize me! You, darling, should be more creative… and more careful.” Paul nagged, wagging his finger at his boyfriend’s reflection in the mirror. Shit, wasn’t John the one that had suggested, over tea and a joint on the balcony, that they go out in disguises, and take a walk in Central Park on this perfect late morning—like regular people, like bloody humans do, on an unusually beautiful, spring day in this spectacular American city?  
  
The press conference to launch Apple Corps yesterday afternoon had gone rather well, Paul thought. The questions were typically daft and John had been on mark, witty and genuinely sincere, the whole way through the bloody thing. Then a quiet romantic dinner at some uptown, exclusive posh club that Nat had recommended. Paul was fairly sure it was a queer club, though there was nothing extremely obvious about the place, or the even the clientele, to tip him off. Just mostly well-dressed blokes and a scattering of female supper companions. Nothing really all that poof about the place, really— just a feeling in his gut, that’s all. Maybe it was the way that French waiter looked at him and John, and smirked. The steak tartar and baked Alaska were fucking bloody delicious, Paul remembered. He still tasted the faint whispers of the sweet dessert, mixed in with John’s salty cum from this morning.  
  
Standing in front of his partner before the large, ornate hallway mirror near the front door of Weiss’ flat, Paul adjusted his fake, scruffy black beard again, moving it back and forth until he was satisfied with the result. Then he shifted the small couch pillow he had shoved under his button-down shirt, before putting on one’s of Nat’s over-sized, long striped dress blazers. He did look like a fat, bearded old geezer. Pefect.  
  
“Just put on a floppy hat and dark sunglasses, ya git!”  
  
“They’d know it was me if I did something as simple as that, John. I’m very recognizable, ya know.” Paul arched an eyebrow, and then winked in playful jest.  
  
“Christ, Macca! Yer such an arrogant drama queen!” John huffed, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Who the fuck did Paul think he was, after all? More bloody recognizable, more famous than John fucking Lennon, for shit’s sake?  
  
“And you look like a crazed staffer in a mental ward, what with that all white yer wearing there, luv. Bit loud for a walk in the park, don’t ya think?” Paul turned around to face his lover, and started to fuck about with John’s tie knot. “Shit, John… people are gonna stare at ya just cause of yer fucking blinding outfit, for Christ’s sake.”  
  
“Let ‘em stare. Won’t recognize me though, will they? I’ve got me new sunglasses.” Like a naughty little boy, John tossed Paul a silly look over the rim of his wire specs.  
  
“Considering that ya wore this same fucking white suit for that photo circus when we landed at the airport, there’s a good chance they will recognize ya, darling!”  
  
“Well, you’ll protect my honor and me person, won’t ya, baby? S’ides, I’m fond of this suit. As I recall, you suggested that I try it on in that West End shop, remember?”  
  
“Yer honor, yes. Can I protect you and yer ghost get-up from getting ripped to shreds by hysterical fans? Not bloody likely. And, yeah—course I remember.” Paul smiled with his eyes, and started to undo John’s white silk tie, readjusting it to his taste. “Just didn’t ‘spect ya’d actually buy the fucking thing, that’s all.”  
  
“Ring up Nell and Mal, then. Tell ‘em to get over here fast. I need to get the ‘ell outta this flat and get some fresh air. And stop messing with me tie, mother. It’s fine!” John barked, swatting Paul’s hands away with a chuckle.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The bright mid-day May sunshine reflected off the waves of dark ripples, trees casting shadows that danced across the surface of the water at the edges of the lake. The air was pleasantly chilly, as the park’s birdlife sang and squawked with the lust of spring mating rituals. Everything around them was bursting with the joyous relief of finally springing back to life after another long, dreary New York winter.  
  
“Lemme try, ok?”  
  
“Do ya actually know how to row a boat, John?”  
  
“Yes, I know how to row a fuckin’ boat! S’ides, it doesn’t look all that hard. Shove over, will ya, and lemme be the captain of yer dinghy for a while, matey!”  
  
Paul laughed, shaking his head, cheeks bulging above the false, black scruff, as he scooted his disguised, beautiful arse out of the way, so John could take up the oars to their small, rented rowboat. Paul leaned back on the tiny bench up front and lit up a smoke.  
  
“Where’s the wine?”  
  
“Under yer seat, ya gorgeous tramp.”  
  
“Ta, luv.”  
  
John’s smile beamed with affection, as he began rowing them across the lake. It was earlier than the start of the official rental season at the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park; Neil had scrambled to make special arrangements over the phone to satisfy yet another insane Lennon demand. No doubt people strolling by on the path were already staring at the two strangely dressed young men, as they glided across the glassy surface of the desolate, artificial lake.  
  
“So the press nonsense went right well yesterday. Didn’t ya think so?” Paul murmured, before taking another drag off his cigarette, and a swig of the tart white wine that Mal had brought along at John’s request.  
  
“S’ppose. Same ol’ shit, really. But at least we had something fuckin’ important to talk about this time. Apple’s gonna be great, Paul.”  
  
“Yeah, as long as we sign a few profitable acts. You know, some  _good_  artists, to balance out the nutters.”  
  
“It s’not amount the money, luv. I though ya got that, Paul.”  
  
“I get it! I do! It’s just that… well, we can’t just lose bags of bloody money either, luv. It’s s’pposed to be a tax shelter, after all. A way to keep more of our earnings from the greedy taxman, John.”  
  
They both remained quiet for a few minutes, listening to the birds, the sound of the oars breaking the surface, and the songs of branches with green shoots rustling in the noon breezes.  
  
Paul leaned back further, letting the fingers of his right hand skim across the cool, wet surface. He closed his eyes, as John began to softly hum a tune in rhythm with his oar strokes. A new one, Paul reckoned. He didn’t recognize it.  
  
Fuck. He was gonna have to give John an answer, and soon. Paul still couldn’t believe John hadn’t really pestered him much yet; he imagained that John was just as nervous about this fucking ultimatum shit as he was. At home, in the studio, on planes, in the fucking loo… Paul had been thinking about his partner’s ultimatum every day for months now. Over the Christmas holidays back in Liverpool with Jane, he realized what was going on here… another bloody Lennon test.  Like nicking a record, or guessing what words of praise John craved, but wouldn’t come out and request straight up. Another bleeding test, he figured, to determine if Paul was really the one, after all.  
  
But what could he say now? What did John actually fucking want to hear? Could Paul really give up the band, the adoration of millions of fans, the thrill of performing his precious creations? Christ, the respect of his family. Of his dad?  
  
Shit, could he really give up being Paul McCartney, just to satisfy another one of John’s irrational demands, another one of John’s impossible needs?  
  
And could John really give up being John fucking Lennon?  
  
  
“Yer a thousand miles away, aren’t ya?”  
  
“Hmm? No, I’m right here luv, just enjoying yer tune. Got words for it yet?”  
  
“What? Christ, Paul. No, I don’t have any lyrics yet.” John laughed out loud. “I fucking made it up just now, ya git!”  
  
“Well, we can work on it then. Tonight, if ya want. S’beautiful melody, by the way.”  
  
John shook his head, with a smirk. “What praise from the great McCartney! You make me blush, you do.”  
  
Without warning, John pulled the oars back in the rented rowboat, and let the small vessel float about aimlessly on its own in a hidden, shadowy cove.  
  
“C’mere, and kiss me.” John whispered, pulling off his sunglasses.  
  
Paul leaned forward, and pulled down his false varmit of a beard, planting his lips softly on John’s waiting mouth. Quietly, they let their lips danced gently over one another, eyes closed in sweet delight. John’s fingers tangled in Paul’s hair, as the bassist pulled the floppy edges of John’s ridiculous hat in tighter, squeezing John’s skull with adoration. John broke the kiss slowly, leaving his hands knotted in Paul’s hair, his face mere inches away from Paul’s open mouth.  
  
“I’m leaving Cyn. Made up me mind, Paul.”  
  
“John…”  
  
“I have to, Paul. I’ll go stark mad if I have to go back to Kenwood, back to me prison of a marriage. I’m not him. I’m not that bloke she thinks that she married. I can’t. Shit, I can’t lie to her anymore, Paul.” John’s voice hitched with a squeak of pain, as he poured his confession out, eyes wide in anticipation of Paul’s reaction.  
  
“What ‘bout Jules?” His hands shaking, Paul stomach was caught in his throat. He wasn’t ready for this. Not now. Not here in this fucking rowboat.  
  
“We’ll take care of Jules, luv. I’m not gonna stop being his dad. You know that. Shit, maybe I’ll finally start being a real fuckin’ father, with yer help.”  
  
Paul could barely breathe; his body was out of his control, frozen rigid with panic.  
  
Finally, he uttered, “When?”  
  
“When we get back to England, after this New York press gig. I should tell her in person, I reckon. Right thing to do and all.”  
  
“She’ll be devasted, John.” A tear slid out of Paul’s right eye, sailing down over curve of his cheek. John brushed it away with a gentle caress of his finger.  
  
“Ssshh, luv. It’ll be hard at first, but it’ll get better. I’ll do well by her, Paul. Set her and Jules up with everything they need. I’d like her to be happy, ya know? Maybe Cyn will find a good husband, ya know? Maybe a fuckin’ straight one.” John chuckled, in a mixture of sadness and hope. Christ, just saying all this out loud felt so bloody good.  
  
He exhaled with release.  
  
“Let’s go back to the flat, Paul. Let’s go back and make love, ok?”  
  
Paul nodded, barely able to catch his breath, his heart pounding now like a bass drum in his chest.  
  
John hadn’t asked him anything about the ultimatum.  
  
Fuck.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Paul sat crossed-legged on the pile of plush blankets and pillows that they had arranged earlier on the floor of Nat’s grand drawing room; a fire glowed in the fireplace, lighting the warm air that enveloped him. He was completely naked and spent, cradling his acoustic in his lap, strumming out bits of the melody that he had heard John humming back at the lake, playing with words silently in the back of his mind. His boyfriend was mucking about in the kitchen, rummaging around noisily for something to eat, famished from the exertion of their passionate lovemaking. The sun was down, and the dim light of dusk in the city descended over the cavernous space. A smoldering cigarette sat helplessly in the ashtray by Paul’s side.  
  
“Ready for a picnic, luv?” John strolled out, wearing nothing but his talisman necklace, an opened bottle of wine tucked securely under one arm. In his hands he held a bowl filled to the brim with a veritable feast, a lit smoke dangling from his lips.  
  
“Whatcha find?”  
  
“Bread, cheese, olives, some fruit. A fuckload of tasty goodies.”  
  
“Mmm. Bring it over then. I’m starving!” Paul’s eyes sparkled as he gazed up at John, putting aside his guitar, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.  
  
“Ya should be, after that afternoon romp, darling.” John chuckled, eyebrows raised above his wire frames in affectionate jest.  
  
Hours earlier, they’d enjoyed one of the most beautiful, most satisfying fucks that Paul had ever experienced. It began with blues music, and candles, and a slow dance of undressing each other, as they peppered every square inch of flesh with kisses. They took their sweet time, relishing the slowness, wallowing in the expectant waiting, and the teasing aches that rippled through their bodies.  
  
Fuck, it had felt like it had been hours that John had spent toying with him, kissing and licking every morsel of Paul, from his ankles to his forehead. Shit, John had even generously sucked on Paul’s wriggling toes, until the younger man writhed on his back, clutching the soft blankets, moaning and begging. Pleading for John’s cock, just the way his auburn-haired lover sometimes demanded that he squirm and supplicate for him.  
  
And then Paul arched up his perfect narrow hips, spreading his thighs apart with the anticipated ecstacy of penetration. And fuck, did John take his bloody time. Entering and retreating, slowly… watching every stroking movement of his slippery, thick prick as he moved in and out of Paul’s tight bum, supporting Paul’s bent legs in the crooks of his elbows, pushing them down and apart, wider and wider. Talented bastard that he was, John would feel Paul getting dangerously closer, and leisurely pull out, only to resume his taunting kisses, licking off the streams of sweat that pooled on his boyriend’s burning body.  
  
Finally, when Paul was in tears, swearing and cursing John’s name in the most filthy ways, demanding to be drained, John laughed wickedly and fucking started all over again. Shit near killed the lad.  
  
As Paul tensed up at last for what he prayed was his release, John pulled out once more, and lowered his face to his lover’s crotch, taking Paul’s aching throbber between his talented lips, sucking his boyfriend’s full, clenched balls completely bloody dry. In the spasms of his crotch-ripping orgasm, Paul involuntarily sat up, hands crossed behind his head, and screamed bloody murder, for all of upper Manhattan to hear. Paul was always a bit of a screamer, ya know.  
  
“That, my love, was for what ya did to me last year in Greece, you delicious fuck.” John hummed to himself, swallowing every last warm drop with a dramatic gulp, and a devilish smirk.  
  
As Paul lay back down, gasping and trembling and whimpering, raking his fingers through his sopping hair, John danced trails of kisses up his torso, hovering over him on his hands and knees. John let his lover recover for a few more minutes, kissing his face in every possible place, lingering at the sensitive corners of Paul’s mouth, as Paul continued to giggle and moan, eye shut tight, trying desperately to catch his breath. John cleaned his cock off with a wet towel he had readied for the purpose.  
  
“Shit, John!”  
  
“You likey, Macca? Hmm? Better than any bird you’ve ever fucked, yeah?” John leaned down, still on all fours, and kissed Paul’s forehead gently.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Open yer mouth babe. Time for Johnny’s turn.” John scooted up, and lightly touched the tip of his hard, aching cock against Paul’s moist bottom lip.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“I wanna fuck yer mouth, Paul, again. Open wide, and stick those beautiful fingers of yers up me arse. Yeah, that’s right, baby...”  
  
~~~~~~  
  
It was getting close to midnight as they stretched out, naked on their backs, side by side, staring at the ceiling, its surface embellished with white plaster carvings of cherubs dancing through grape vines. Two lovers snuggled shoulder to shoulder, in the softness of the covers strewn about Nat’s floor.  
  
“So what’s yer answer, luv. I think I’ve given ya plenty of fucking time, yeah?” John took a deep drag off his smoke, blowing white clouds up at the fucking daft flying babies.  
  
“Huh?” Paul swallowed, trying to clear his throat, as he turned to look at John, whose eyes were glued with fear, fixed to the fuzzy sight of the pudgy, winged infants dancing happily across the ceiling.  
  
“Yer answer to me ultimatum, Paul. What is it?”  
  
“John…”  
  
“What the fuck is yer answer, Paul.”  
  
“I… I can’t…”  
  
“Ya can’t what?”  
  
“Can’t we just keep doing what we’ve been doing? It’s working, it’s perfect. We see each other nearly whenever we want. It’s good, isn’t it?”  
  
“Not for me, Paul. You fuckin’ know that!”  
  
John turned to look deep into Paul’s eyes, praying he’d see something… anything… to give him a scrap of hope. Any sign that Paul really did love him, would do anything for him, would risk it all, would jump down any bloody rabbit hole with him.  
  
“What’s yer answer?”  
  
“I can’t go public with this, John. With us. Not right now. Maybe if things change… I dunno, when the world changes a bit, ya know?” Paul was pleading for mercy with his eyes.  
  
John didn’t blink, his expression hard and frozen, as Paul blabbered away, almost incoherently, tears welling up under his heavy lids.  
  
“I can’t do that to me family… to me dad… and to Mike. I don’t want to lose them.” Paul bit down fiercely on his right knuckle.  
  
John swallowed hard, silently. Fuck. He turned away from Paul’s eyes, back to face the ceiling, knots of pain ripping through his gut, shattering his insides.  
  
What did ya bloody expect, after all, Lennon?  
  
This was Paul.  
  
Fuck! He’d lost his heart alone all those years ago, it turned out. Unrequited… unwanted, fucking again.  
  
“I can’t give up everything. Not right now. I can’t give up the band, John. S’not fair… not fair to anyone, John.”  
  
“But ya can give me up, then? Is that what yer sayin’, Paul?”  
  
“No, that’s s’not what I’m saying, luv. I just need more time. We need more time. Shit, John. We can’t go public with this right now, not with the Apple launch, and the new album getting’ started. We just… we can’t, John. S’not time.”  
  
John didn’t make a sound, as wetness pooled in the corners of his eyes, threatening to roll down his cheeks. Silently, he fought to hold back the sobs.  
  
“John, I love you.”  
  
Watching his lover, his soulmate, simply shut down in front of his eyes, watching his steel walls go back up again, Paul couldn’t hold back his flood of tears, as he hugged himself tightly. He wouldn’t hold back, he wouldn’t hide. John needed to understand…  
  
As he stared blankly at the ceiling, John realized that he was completely alone. He hadn’t been alone in so fucking long. John had forgotten how terrifying it was to be left, to be abandoned. Mum. Dad. Uncle George. Stu. Brian. Christ, all of them. And now Paul. He didn’t even have the fucking balls to be with him. To be really with him.  
  
Fuck ‘em all…  
  
 _“Not gonna see me cry over this, ya selfish cunt!”_  
  
John sat up suddenly, shaking with anger and pain. He grabbed his glasses and cigarettes off the floor.  
  
“Goodbye, Paul.” He leaned down and kissed Paul quickly on the temple, barely suffocating one, wrenching gasp, as he pressed his lips once last time against his former lover’s beautiful, treasonous face. And then he let go, completely.  
  
A bastard, cold, heartless act of self-preservation.  
  
“John!”  
  
But it was too late. Paul had failed the only test that had ever really mattered—the most unreasonable, cruel, sadistic of all John’s tests. But he failed. That’s all that mattered to John. Paul failed him. Like everyone else.  
  
John sprang up, and marched into one of the nearby bedrooms, slamming the door, locking it with a sharp click. He rushed over to the bed, and grabbed his notebook and the pen that he’d left there earlier.  
  
 _“Dear Cynthia…”_  it started. He’d send her a bloody letter, demand a fucking divorce, for Christ’s sake. Fuck doing what was expected of him, what he knew was the right thing. Fuck everything. Everyone…  
  
He threw down the pen in frustration, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t write another word. Not now. He needed to talk to someone.  
  
To her.  
  
He picked up the receiver of the phone on the nightstand, and dialed the number that he had once jotted down on the inside cover of his notebook. Back at Dunbar’s gallery during that last bizarre show.  
  
He hoped it was the same fucking number.  
  
He needed to talk to her. She'd understand the depths of his pain.  
  
“Hello? Hey. It’s me... John. I need to talk. I’m coming back to London in three days,  _alone_.” John swallowed the raw anguish threatening to tear apart his chest.  
  
“I’ll be alone, ok? Will ya see me?”  
  
Out in the large space of Weiss’ sumptuous flat, in the room where just a few hours ago they’d made exquisite love to each other on the floor, Paul sat on the ledge of the large picture window, curled up in a ball, blanket wrapped tightly around his naked body. The lights of city sparkled outside the thick glass like gems in the dark night.  
  
He’d lost John… how would he fucking survive this? He couldn’t cry anymore right now. Nothing was left. He lit another smoke.  
  
John had been locked up in the room they’d been sharing, locked up in there for over a fucking hour now. Paul heard him whispering like some bloody scheming criminal. He must be on the phone, Paul figured.  
  
And then… click.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Silence.  
  
Emptiness.  
  
Paul bent down to grab the phone off the mahogany writing desk in Nat’s parlor. He was pretty sure that he remembered the number, he thought.  
  
He dialed, waiting three rings before it was picked up.  
  
It was bloody late.  
  
“Linda? It’s Paul. Yeah… Paul McCartney. Hi. I’m in New York. Can I see you?”

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

_**3.**_ _ **Don’t be a jealous prick**_  
  
  
 **1967, Greece**  
  
The Greek authorities had ignored their own official policies, and re-opened the legendary archaeological site well after closing hours for these two famous, English musicians; Paul and John wanted to stroll around the deserted site together in private, safe from the hoards of tourists and deranged fans, despite the fact that it was getting close to dusk. With the wives and kids and girlfriends, and every bloody person in the inner circle, along for the trip, John and Paul had enjoyed little precious time alone together on this mad jaunt.  
  
The day before, Paul had gone off to the side of the boat with Magic Alex, and quietly asked their new Greek friend to arrange an undisclosed visit to the sacred acropolis for him and John. Alex quickly agreed, delighted to show off his supposed inside connections with various Athenian politicos in his motherland. Fat bribes to the custodians certainly helped too.  
  
And, as far as the authorities were concerned, the Beatles were spending millions of pounds, or had at least promised to spend a fuckload of drachma in this cash-strapped, sun-drenched country, with their off-the-wall plan to purchase an island or two off the coast of Athens. Well, it was crazy Lennon’s idea, really. But John usually got his way when it came to insane, daft ideas if he stayed interested long enough, which was always an unpredictable gamble with fickle Lennon.  
  
In the end, when it came to granting special accommodations for John and Paul’s irreverent desires, rules could always be broken.  
  
“Bunch of fucking, broken rocks, Macca. So learn me, luv. What are all these columns and marble shit?” John groaned like an annoyed brat on a school field trip, looking up at the spectacular west face of the Parthenon, lit in rich golden hues by the setting sun. His colorful shirt was stuck to the muscles of his back, still slightly damp from the streams of sweat brought on earlier in the day by the hot, humid Mediterranean air. With a grunt, he adjusted his broad hat, and pushed his specs up the curved bridge of his nose.  
  
“Bunch of rocks? Cor, John—this is the fuckin’ Athenian acropolis. The most famous place in all of Greece. The  'political and religious heart of the democratic western world,' least that what this guidebook says. Fuck. I’m not sure exactly what all these monuments are. I used to know some of this shit! OK, lemme read this bit and I’ll tell ya, John. Hang on then!”  
  
“Always were a tight-arsed nancy school boy, weren’t ya, Paul?”  
  
“And you thought it was bloody sexy and more fun for ya, after all. Corrupting a dutiful student at the Inny with yer filthy, laddish art college ways.” Mocking a posh, educated accent, Paul winked, and playfully bumped into John’s shoulder; soon Paul’s eyes were glued earnestly back again to the description in the paperback tourist guide. John put his right hand on the slope of Paul’s lower back, rubbing the hollow of his boyfriend’s spine in affection.  
  
“The only thing you were dutiful to was yer guitar, and me prick, luv.” John snorted back, his eyes dancing over Paul’s partially shadowed profile… over Paul’s sweeping, long lashes backlit by the waning, orange Greek sun. John’s breath was snatched momentarily from his lungs by his lover’s striking beauty. Fuck, he’s perfect.  
  
 _“Why the hell does he still want me?”_  John wondered silently in frustration. Wearing his tan embroidered shirt and cream-colored trousers, Paul lifted his gaze from the guidebook, and saw the twinge of insecurity in John’s eyes. Leaning forward slightly, he quickly ran the back of his left hand up John’s chest, a simple, generous caress of reassurance. John’s exhaled at the sensation of Paul’s light, loving touch.  
  
“Hmm, so let’s go to the other side of this temple, John. Says here that there’s a good view of the entire city from over there, alright?” His goofy smile couldn’t disguise Paul’s ache to tongue fuck his partner in the shadows of one of the most renowned places in the world. Once in a lifetime opportunity, this was… snogging the illegal love of his life out in the open, on the steps of the fucking Parthenon.  
  
“Alex promised me that the guards will stay here at the entrance. S’more private on the other side, ya know?”  
  
“Are ya trying to take advantage of me, Macca?” John hummed in delight.  
  
“Me? Now would I do that, baby? I just want to broaden our horizons, that’s all. C’mon, follow me.” Paul looked around, before gently taking John’s right hand, intertwining their fingers, and leading him up the marble steps and through the shaded, vastness of the external colonnade, to the east side of the massive, columned structure.  
  
  
  
“Excuse me, sir? Excuse me?”  
  
“The site is closed, madam. It will reopen tomorrow at nine in the morning. You must come back then.”  
  
“Yes, yes, but you see… I’m Paul McCartney’s, um, I’m Paul’s wife. I’m a Beatles’ wife.” Her crimson hair shining from the last rays of the setting sun, Jane thought she’d have better luck if the guard thought she and Paul were married. “He’s forgotten his movie camera, and my husband will be so disappointed if he doesn’t have it. I just need to come in to give it to him.” Jane held up the small device, pointing to it with an exaggerated gesture, speaking slowly and sporting her friendliest, most honest smile.  
  
“Oh, I see. Yes. He did say that he wanted to film the beauty of our acropolis. Your husband and his friend have walked to the other side of the hill. Over there.”  
  
At first Jane had thought it rather odd that Paul wanted to go to the acropolis after hours with just John. But then she remembered that delicious scene in Gin’s guest room back on Paul’s 21st birthday, before the big fight with Wooler, when she watched in delighted amazement, as John give her boyfriend a blowjob on the bed. Curious and tingling with excitement, she imagined that they had planned another little tryst here in Athens. Or at least she hoped…  
  
Bored senseless with Cyn and Pattie’s dull company, Jane came up with the idea of the camera ruse, sneaking off the boat and grabbing a taxi to catch up with Paul and John. And now here she was, having successfully thwarted the local custodians, walking as quietly as possible towards the far side of the huge, marble temple, camera already turned on in preparation for home movie making.  
  
  
  
At the eastern end, under the dim cover of dusk, Paul had tenderly pushed John up against the side of one of the thick, white columns. His hands were under John’s blue T-shirt, lightly dancing up and down the sides of his warm torso, tickling and teasing, as Paul’s tongue snaked its hungry way through John’s willing, parted lips. John cupped one round arse cheek with his right hand, his other fingers gently twisting a fistful of Paul’s thick, dark hair. They moaned and chuckled in unison, squirming at the satisfaction of savoring each other after way too long of a bloody time. Shit, if they could get away with a quick bum fuck or even a blowjob, they would have; Paul would have dropped to his knees in a heartbeat if John had given him that certain wicked look. But here atop the sacred hill, on display for all of Athens, guards a mere couple of hundred yards away, both men thought it too risky. A deep, slow snog would have to do for now.  
  
“Mmm, baby. Shit you taste amazing.” John groaned quietly, as his squeezed Paul’s firm cheek with adoration. Paul pulled back momentarily, and removed John’s hat and wire specs, dropping them into his colorful bag that was resting on the marble floor surface. Despite the day’s heat, the stone felt cool to the touch. He lifted the back of John’s cotton shirt up with his fingers, pressing John’s back muscles against the solid, refreshing smooth surface.  
  
“Fuck, Johnny. I’ve been achin’ to kiss your beautiful face since we boarded that bloody boat. I don’t think I could ‘ave waited another second…”  
  
John grinned sweetly, eyes closed tightly for another snog attack by Paul’s full lips. John was fairly happy since they’d arrived in Greece, Paul had noticed. And surprisingly relaxed… calm and smiling like a content child. He wasn’t tripping much on this adventure, just lounging about in the warm sun, sipping Greek wine and toking on joints. Paul was secretly thrilled at the change in his boyfriend’s often-erractic behavior and delighted that he himself no longer suffered from the side effects of all the fucking cocaine he’d been shoving up his nose lately. Wine and weed, and sun, and the salty smells of the Mediterranean Sea. With John. Fucking bliss, Paul thought.  
  
“I need to touch, you, John. I need to feel you in me hand.” Paul huffed with desire.  
  
“I’m not stopping ya, luv.” John smirked, his narrow eyes still closed.  
  
Paul traced the fingers of his left hand down under the waistband of John’s baggy, peach trousers, slowly caressing his lover’s skin lightly, as he let his hand brush over the velvet stiffness of John’s fully erect cock. John broke the wet kiss for a gulp of air, moaning in pleasure.  
  
“Shit, you’re hard as hell, Johnny.”  
  
“Fuck, just toss me off, baby. Please, Paul.” John implored, as his thrust his hips forward, towards the too delicate touch of Paul’s taunting fingers. Paul hummed softly into John’s neck, and wrapped his warm hand around John’s pulsing shaft, one finger at a time, teasing him with the slow pace. As he sucked on John’s neck, nibbling and kissing, his hand was soon lubed with his boyfriend’s sticky drops of precum. Paul began to stroke John under the loose, linen cloth, slowly at first; John turned his head sharply, away from the building, eyes shut with gratification, both arms bent behind him, wrapped for support around the solid shaft of the marble pillar pressed against his back.  
  
Paul’s lips returned to devour John’s panting mouth, as Paul pumped him with long, slow strokes. Every third or fourth stroke, he moved his wet hand down to gently sqeeze John’s balls, eliciting a shaky cry from the back of John’s throat.  
  
Then, out of the corner of Paul’s eye, he saw something move behind a column in the distance. But when he looked again, nothing was there. All of a sudden, just when he though he’d been hallucinating from too much sun and pot, her eyes peeked out, a smirk plastered across her dainty face. Fuck. Paul’s breath hitched in complete terror.  
  
“Shit, don’t stop, luv. I’m getting so fuckin’ close…”  
  
Paul jerked his gaze back to John’s dazed, distracted face. Fuck. John couldn’t find out Jane was here, watching them. Watching Paul take control of John with a handjob, up against a column on the fucking acropolis. As he resumed his long strokes, Paul quickly turned back to the spot where Jane had been, only to find that she had moved two or three columns closer, still smiling with uncharacteristic naughtiness. She gave Paul a thumbs up, mouthed, “You’re beautiful,” and then, “This is so hot,” and then finally pulled the movie camera up to her eye.  
  
Fuck, Jane wasn’t pissed off or freaked out or jealous or anything like that. She was bloody turned on.  
  
Paul tried to slow down his racing heart and catch his breath, as his own prick sprang to full attention, throbbing with the realization that his gorgeous bird was actually enjoying watching him make it with another bloke. Make it with fucking John, for shit’s sake.  
  
Bloody hell, she was filming them! Paul closed his eyes, before a lustful grin soon spread across his perfect features. In one swift move, he pulled John’s trousers down, watching them puddle in waves of salmon-colored cloth around his lover’s ankles.  
  
Hmm, now she could really see what he was doing. Now she could film John thick, velvet cock begging like a wanton slave to his hand. She could watch Paul overpower his partner with his talented fingers. Fuck, this was brilliant, Paul moaned silently as he ached inside.  
  
 _“Film it, Jane! Capture John coming his bloody brains out, squirting his juice in me hands. Yes, that’s right luv. Fuckin’ record this.”_  
  
“Ssshh, baby. Try to stay quiet or the guards might come over.” He whispered into John’s sideboard. Then he looked back at Jane, and winked. She smiled back, nodding in encouragement.  
  
John gasped, as he knees began to buckle out from under him; he clung to the solid column shaft tighter, head arched back in ecstacy, eye shut tight in abandon.  
  
“Oh god, Paul…”  
  
“Give it to me, John. All of Athens is watching. Gimme every fuckin’ drop. C’mon, baby. Yes…”  
  
At the sound of the word ‘drop,’ John exploded in waves of release, moaning softly into the night air, rocking back and forth between his lover and the stone post, until he collapsed into Paul’s embrace. Paul’s grabbed his trembling face, and kissed him on the mouth hard, until John nearly cried out for air. When Paul looked back, hugging John’s quaking body tight, Jane was gone. She had snuck off silently with her craving fulfilled, and with the movie camera, the device that now held a tasty, illicit home movie. A once in a lifetime handjob under a classical Greek temple, recorded for posterity.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Two days later, and one very long, frank conversation between Paul and Jane about his girlfriend’s sexual fantasies, and Paul had managed to devise another opportunity for him and John to be alone for the night, with Jane’s enthusiastic approval, of course. After he’d spent the day before, that is, lavishing every possible sort of attention all over her lithe body.  
  
And, after nervously revealing to her that John was also a closet voyeur—that he had once begged Paul to let him watch Paul and Jane fuck while he tossed himself off. And Paul had let him. Fuck. She just chuckled in delight at the naughty image of John hiding somewhere, wanking away while Paul fucked her.  
  
She and that gorgeous bastard Lennon weren’t all that different after all, were they?  
  
The Beatles troupe was temporarily housed at a sprawling enclave of small but posh seaside villas on the coast, near the islands that they were considering to purchase. The rented villas were typical Greek architectural gems, white plastered structures, accented by pastel window boards and doors, perched out on the edge of a rocky cliff, overlooking the thrashing waves of the sea below. Fucking romantic as all hell, Paul mused.  
  
In a black T-shirt and loose, flower-patterned pajama bottoms, Paul meandered through the cozy rooms of his villa, checking the fridge to be sure it was stocked according to his orders. He had carefully arranged dozens of candles in the main room, a space strewn with pillows and lounge furniture, dominated by a huge picture window overlooking the sea and a plush sheep’s skin rug. Dessert had been prepared just as he had instructed, and the rich smells of chocolate and vanilla cream wafted through the space. Perfect, he boasted to himself—the perfect place to drive John out of his mind with pleasure while Jane writhed, watching discretely through the slats of the coat closet door. He’d fuck her soaked bits afterwards, once John had passed out from exhaustion. It was gonna be a long night, Paul chuckled with a shake of his head, after draining another glass of sweet wine. He lit up a joint with a smirk.  
  
A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts.  
  
John.  
  
And not all that bloody late, for a change.  
  
“Coming, luv!”  
  
“Not fuckin’ yet, I hope!”  
  
Paul pulled the wooden door open quickly, his left arm extended out in a welcoming gesture to invite John into the smoky sex nest.  
  
“See ya’ve dressed up for the ocassion, Macca.”  
  
“Don’t plan on being dressed all that long. Want me to change into me collarless suit and leather boots, or something?”  
  
John chuckled, as he pushed roughly passed his smiling lover, eyes darting around the candle-lit room. Shit, Paul had been fucking right aggressive lately, John reminded himself, as he breathed in the intoxicating mixture of chocolate and burning candles. Time to fuck Macca’s tight arse back into complete submission. Hard. Put the universe back in its rightful order and all…  
  
“Smells bloody fantastic. Chocolate, huh?”  
  
“Had it prepared just for you, luv. Might even let ya eat yer sweet treat, if you’re a well-behaved, obedient boy toy, that is.”  
  
“Why, ya condescending little fucker…”  
  
John laughed, and marched up to Paul, shoving him against the back of the door. With his recent weight loss from all the acid and resulting loss of appetite, John couldn’t physically overpower the bassist as easily as he used to, but he was still a tad stronger, by a slim margin. Scheming ahead in his mind, Paul acquiesced and went limp, giving John the false confidence of having taken the upper hand at the beginning of their competitive love match—a playful game that they had both anticipated enjoying again, ever since they’d left London for Greece. It had been too fucking long, John snorted to himself, too fucking long since he’d bent Paul over a couch or a chair or anything, and rammed the beautiful, arrogant prick until he could barely walk straight. Gonna fix that tonight, Lennon decided right there.  
  
When he could finally catch his breath from John’s demanding mouth and groping hands, Paul gasped seductively, “Let’s have some dessert, then. I’ve got the perfect wine ready too.”  
  
Although his aching, assertive balls were screaming at Lennon to just tackle Macca to the floor and pound him into delerium, John was a bonafide chocolatewhore. A not-so-secret fact that was just one of Paul’s secret weapons in tonight’s battle for bedroom dominance.  
  
“Huh? Um, yeah, that’s sounds tasty. I like the idea of ya on yer knees, feedin’ me yer treat, Paul.”  
  
“Good.” Paul chuckled, his face darkening with lust as he turned away from John to retrieve the dessert dish from the kitchen. “Have a seat over there, baby. Stretch out, and get comfortable. I’ll bring it in.”  
  
John sat down on the long, comfy lounge chair, straightening out out his denim-clad legs, extending his arms, swathed in a multi-colored, flowing button-down shirt, up over his head with a deep sigh.  
  
 _“Shit, if only little Janey knew what I plan on doing to her pretty boyfriend. My fucking boyfriend first, ya bitch.”_  John hummed, relishing tonight’s anticipated victory over his redheaded skirt of a rival.  
  
 _“Fuck, I’m such a bleeding jealous prick.”_ John snorted to himself.  
  
With the room dimmed, lit only by flickering candlelight, John didn’t notice the silk scarf tied securely to the heavy wooden wall beam just behind his head. He took a long, deep drag off the fat joint Paul had left in the ashtray on the table beside the chaise. Some strong shit, this pot that Paul had somehow scored, John murmured. His eyes slowly rolled back in his head, as ripples of tingling numbness took hold of his body. Some fucking wicked strong shit, alright.  
  
“Here we are. Ah, see yer enjoying that exotic grass that Alex got me. Great fuckin’ stuff, huh?”  
  
“Strong as ‘ell, Macca. Got somethin’ to drink? Where’s the wine, darlin’? This weed’s made me mouth as dry as the fuckin’ Sahara.”  
  
“Here, luv.” Paul poured a healthy glass of the golden liquid into the tumbler and handed it to his lover. Another surprise weapon, he snorted to himself—a special Greek nectar that Alex had promised was a completely safe, but powerful, aphrodisiac. Rare, and very hard to acquire for foreigners, and for even average Greeks, he had insisted. Magic Alex had very special connections in high places after all, the pompous twat.  
  
Between the pot and the rare wine, John would soon be totally relaxed, compliant, and randy as all fuck. Desperate to be stroked, pleading for release.  
  
A complete slave to Paul’s touch.  
  
Perfect.  
  
“Can I feed some of this to ya, John?” Paul asked coquettishly, like a smitten teenage bird, batting his long eyelashes flirtatiously. Having climbed onto the chaise recliner, he straddled John’s hips, pressing his arse down into his boyfriend’s crotch.  
  
Eyes half-opened in stoned bliss, John mumbled, “Mmm. Sure, baby,” before resting his head back against the chaise lounge. John took his glasses off, carefully placing them on the table beside the chair.  
  
Paul scooped up a spoonful of creamy chocolate mousse from the bowl, licking a bit off with his tongue to try it, before offering it to his handsome, baked boyfriend.  
  
“Open up yer mouth, Johnny. This is amazing.”  
  
“Mmm. Fuck, yes it is.”  
  
As John savored the chocolate delight with his tongue, Paul balanced the dessert dish on John’s chest, and ran his hands up both of John’s extended arms, kissing him on the mouth, licking off bits of the mousse as John moaned.  
  
“What are ya doing, Paul?”  
  
“Just tying yer wrists to this beam, luv. Ssshhh, let go and enjoy it.”  
  
“Huh? What?” John lifted his head and tried to jerk his arms free, but Paul was too fast. John was bound firmly to the immovable wood, his wrists knotted together tightly over his head, with only a fraction of slack in the scarf bind.  
  
“Fuck…”  
  
“Yeah, John. Fuck is right.” Paul sat up and licked off another spoonful of the chocolate dessert. “And don’t make me gag ya, cause ya know I’ll do it in a second,” Paul smirked, before exteneding the spoon and offering John another taste of the silky chocolate cream, which his restrained, shithead of a boyfriend greedily took, followed by another large gulp of wine, and a second drag off the thick joint.  
  
“Macca, yer a bastard of a whore.”  
  
“I said, don’t make me gag ya, John. Mind yer filthy mouth, baby!”  
  
Paul put the bowl down and unbuttoned John’s flimsy shirt, opening it to reveal his pale, heaving chest. Before John could speak, Paul licked trails of warm wetness up and down John’s torso, nibbling at his nipples until the guitarist moaned and squirmed.  
  
“Christ, Paul. Yer a right fuck of a tease.”  
  
Paul sat up, smiling with extreme wickedness, as he lifted one of the nearby, lit candles. Slowly he leaned down, a grabbed John’s mouth with his lips, kissing him, impaling him with his tongue. As John struggled to breath, pulling frantically on the scarf that bound his wrists, Paul let a drop of melted wax fall onto John’s hairless chest.  
  
“Fuck! That bloody hurt, ya shit!”  
  
“Did it? Are ya sure? Here, let’s try that again.”  
  
“Paul…”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Johnny.”  
  
Another drop of scorching red wax and then another, splashed onto John’s shivering body. The fleeting pain was soon followed by Paul’s mouth, licking John’s slightly reddened skin with his tongue, cooled by another swig of the refreshing, cold wine.  
  
“Agh, fuckin’ hell. Paul… please…”  
  
“Please, what? 'Please, Paul—please don’t drip that hot wax on me gorgeous, sensitive balls next.' Is that it, John?” The wicked sparkle in Paul’s eyes easily outshone the candle burning in his hand, as he sat back up, straddling John once more, pinning him down to the cushions.  
  
“Yes. Fuck, yes. Whatever ya want me to say. For Christ’s sake, Paul. Shit, please don’t.” John closed his eyes, trembling with anticipation of the pain, his cock hard as steel, aching to be touched but not daring to ask, in fear of Paul’s reaction, in fear of Paul’s punishment for the wrong words. And fear of that fucking burning candle, hovering in Paul’s right hand above his quaking stomach.  
  
“Roll over!” Paul commanded, his voice low and harsh with power. John obeyed immediately, without question. After lifting the back of John's shirt, Paul slid both his hands under and around John’s stomach, unzipped his lover's jeans and forcefully jerked them down to his ankles.  
  
"What a sweet fucking arse you've got, Johnny."  
  
Two more scorching drops splattered on the small of John’s back.  
  
“Shit, my god. Please stop, Paul. That bloody hurts, baby.” John whimpered, as he writhed against the restraints, helplessly thrusting and grinding his throbbing prick into the chaise cushions.  
  
Christ, John was such a bloody, soft baby.  
  
Course Paul had tested this wax dripping on his own skin before subjecting John to it.  Paul knew, for shit’s sake, that it only hurt for a fraction of a second before the wax quickly cooled. Paul delighted in the fact that John still cried out and squirmed, not from any real pain, but because Paul had the balls to actually do it, to tie John down and take complete control, making John beg him to stop, beg him for mercy, for once.  
  
Another red drop of hot, liquid heat. Another pathetic, muffled cry.  
  
Paul carefully put the candle down, and reached back to grab a bowl he had waiting at the end of the couch. He lifted the cube to his lips, sucking on it.  
  
“Hush, luv. You’ve been such a good boy. Here…”  
  
Paul gently rubbed the ice cube over the hardened, cooled drops that were stuck to John’s back, instantly relieving the slight ghosts of sting left by the splatters of the liquid wax. John sighed in relief, wrists still instinctively fighting against the silk shackles.  
  
Slowly, Paul dragged the ice cube down the cuve of John’s back, into the crack of his bum, licking off the trails of cool moisture left behind with his warm tongue.  
  
“Paul… baby…”  
  
“Quiet, or I'll get the gag.” Paul growled, as he slid the ice-cold cube gently down John’s crack, then further down, using the cold block to caress the tender rim of John’s bum hole, forcing his lover to suffocate another deep gasp into the chair fabric. Paul followed the trail of the ice cube with his mouth, spreading John's arse cheeks with his fingers, flicking and dancing his tongue over that most sensitive, delicate opening, tightly grasping the burning ice in his left hand.  
  
Then, without warning, Paul slowly shoved two, wet icy cold fingers into John tight bum, twisting and turning his way into John's tight heat.  
  
John screamed in ecstacy into the fabric of the cushion.  
  
“First a touch of fire, luv. Now let's enjoy some sweet, cold ice. Spread yer legs a bit more baby. Surrender it to me.” Paul ordered, as his cold fingers rubbed hard, back and forth, against John's prostate, taking over total complete fucking control.  
  
"Lift yer arse higher, John. Higher!" He demanded, as Paul plunged his fingers even deeper—three icy fingers now, cold and thick, penetrating John's scorching body...  
  
“Holy fuck, Paul—that'— a—amazin'.”  
  
“We’ll get to the creamy chocolate lovin' soon, baby. And the cool, sweet wine. And my hard, hot cock. Patience, darling. Patience.”  
  
Behind the insubstantial shutter door of the nearby closet, Jane put down the movie camera for a moment, wiping off her damp brow. Slowly, she smiled. Paul was right, as usual. This was going to be a long night. She only prayed that she had enough film, as she lifted the camera and resumed her special home movie shoot.  
  
Shit.  
  
A long fucking night.

 

  
**1974, Los Angeles**

 

 

“John?”

Reclining peacefully under the shade of the corrugated roof overhang, in the late morning California sun, John looked up through his round, wire sunglasses. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, adorned with some daft slogan, and a pair of slim, worn jeans. Shit, he had a fierce, skull-crushing hangover, again.

“Hmm? What is it, Richard?”

“Just took a phone call. Paul’s on his way over here. Tried to tell him it might not be the best idea and all, but you know what a stubborn prick McCartney can be, better than anyone. Says he’s leaving for London tomorrow, and needed to drop by before he left, to talk to you. To say goodbye and all.”

Well, Paul hadn’t actually said that last ‘goodbye’ bit over the phone. Ringo threw it in there without much thought; he just assumed that’s what his old band mate had meant.

For nearly a minute, John didn’t say a word, or move a muscle on his face. Cold and vacant, he sat frozen in place on the pool lounge chair, cigarette burning between his shaking fingers. His chest ached with stabs of pain from the alcohol withdrawal, and the ever-present anguish, that fucking ache that never went away anymore, unless John was plastered. At least the booze wasn’t as debilitating as the smack. It didn’t work as well as heroin to numb his broken heart, though.

Seeing the empty look in John’s eyes, Ringo just stood there and waited, patiently, pulling out a smoke and lighting up. He couldn’t hear the conversation playing in John’s whirling mind, of course, but he knew it was happening. He had seen this happen, over and over, for years now.

_“Fuck you, Paul! Why are ya torturin’ me like this?”_ John screamed inside, without making a noise.  _“Wasn’t that surprise visit of yers, and that travesty of a jam session, enough bloody hell to put me through, ya selfish bastard!”_

Course John knew it wasn’t. Paul couldn’t possibly put him through enough hell to come close to matching the shit that John had piled on Paul’s doorstep for the past five, long brutal years. John would always be the victor in that nasty, public tussle for dominance between him and Paul. John had made sure of it, lambasting Paul’s precious musical reputation in the press and on vinyl. Crucifying him like no one else could, or ever would.

And, in the end, he’d also succeeded in suffocating the better, compassionate bits of John fucking Lennon that were still left.

Fucking hell.

What scraps of himself that were left loathed that arrogant, cruel bastard for tearing Paul apart like that with his words, with the prick’s fucking music. When had that Lennon cunt decided to obey his demons, and her, and use his songs as weapons to destroy the only person that he had ever truly loved?

Shit, with the way he’d been carrying on lately, John’s sorry excuse for a life would probably turn out to be a right short one. At this moment, lounging by the pool at his rented, L.A. mansion, the idea of less time on this fucked up, ugly, unfair planet was just fine with him. Just bloody end it, for Christ’s sake.

As he unwittingly chewed on the soft inside of his cheek, John took a deep breath, fighting to stop the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

_“Goddamit, Paul. Ya turned out to be a fuckin’ coward after all, didn’t ya, luv?”_  John closed his eyes, and leaned back.  _“Fuck. I s’ppose we both did. I used to believe that we had more balls more than that, baby.”_

Hung over and tired, Ringo finally grabbed a pool chair and dragged it over next to John, whose blank stare now focused on the dancing light patterns that were reflecting off the pool water. Ringo figured John might want to talk, or not. Didn’t matter really. Either way, old Ritchie would be there, waiting, just to be there.

“Fuck!” John snapped, as the hot ash of his forgotten smoke finally burned its way down to his fingers. John flung the cigarette filter into the pool in disgust, and ran his hand through his wavy, auburn hair; he rubbed his aching temples, and then lit another.

“I don’t think he ever understood, Richard.”

“What doesn’t Paul understand, luv?” Ringo said softly.

“Me.”

“Shit, John. I think Paul’s the only one who’s ever really understood ya.” Ringo chuckled with strain, as he exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked down at his bare feet, not knowing what else to say. Not really knowing how to deal with John’s constant, crippling despair anymore.

“Ahoy, mateys!!! What are my two favorite Scouser pricks doing up so bloody early on this fine spring day?” Moonie hollered from across the pool, decked out in his full ship captain’s regalia. Fuck, Keith was already pissed—another pickled, lost soul, staggering aimlessly across the concrete patio towards the house.

“Yer arseholed a bit early, Moonie, darling.”

“Early? It s’late where I’m from, Johnny boy.” Keith stumbled over a folded chair, barely catching his balance before he ran his shoulder into the pole that held up the roof awning. “Well, ‘ello darling, fancy meeting you…” The sloshed drummer conversed like an animated buffoon with the steel rod, always looking to score a cheap laugh from his housemates.

“Go to bed, Keith.” John ordered, his voice suddenly dark and deadly serious. Keith didn’t fuck around with John when Lennon was in one of his moods, which seemed to be much of the time these days. No one in the house did, ‘cept for dickhead Harry, of course.

“Right. Marvelous idea, sir! Nighty-night then, mates. See ya in a few hours, when I’m thirsty again.” Keith saluted, and headed toward the sliding glass patio door, which he promptly ran straight into, head on.

“Tara, Keith,” Ringo replied, shaking his head, realizing that he probably appeared just as fucking daft and pathetic last night during his own insane bender.

“So, Ritch, when’s he arriving? Is he bringing the whole bloody Macca clan along as well?”

“Half an hour, an hour, maybe? With this bloody traffic, who knows for sure? I dunno about the wife and kids, John. Didn’t ask.”

“Shit.” John whispered, wondering if he actually had the energy to make a quick escape before Paul’s grand flourish of an entrance. Just get up and leave before Macca’s big arrival to announce his departure. Pompous, beautiful twat. Before John could decide whether to stay or go, he was rescued.

“Hey there, honey. I’m headed to the store to restock the pantry and the liquor cabinet. Harry and Keith’s shenanigans last night have left us completely cleaned out. Want to join me for a car ride? Get out for a bit of change of scenery?” May spoke sweetly, kissing the top of John’s head softly; she suspected that his head must be pounding from all of the excess booze.

“Yes, fantastic suggestion, luv. Just lemme get me shoes. Be right there, ok?” John replied, as May walked off in the direction of the driveway.

“Yer leaving? Shit, thanks a fuckload, John. Now I gotta deal with Paul by meself.”

“Come with us to the store.”

“I can’t, John. Someone has to be here, ya know that. McCartney trying to perform with no audience turns him into a complete prick, yeah?”

John chuckled; his smile was still stunning, but his eyes were noticeably empty and blunt with pain.

“I’ll be back soon, Ritch. Paul will still be mucking about, no doubt, fiddling on the piano or strutting about in swimsuit, or something.”

“Cor! Ya reckon that’s possible?” Ringo raised an eyebrow sarcastically, and laughed, until a cough threatened to strangle his throat.

 

Two hours later, and John and May came walking into the house together, arms laden with paper grocery bags filled with food and liquor bottles. John’s heart had started racing in his chest the minute she turned the car onto their tree-lined street. Now the pounding of his own pulse in his ears threatened to deafen him. Christ, Paul must be here somewhere, unless he came and left already. Fuck. John swallowed down the lump in his tight throat. Why the hell did he run away? Shit, he probably missed Paul’s visit.

“Hello, you two lovebirds! What did you buy for hungry, little Harry? Did you get me some Pepsi and Oreos?”

“Sod off, Nilsson. Here’s yer fuckin’ biscuits, ya pig. Hey, Harry, um, is Paul still here?” John voice cracked.

“Paul who?” Harry mumbled, shoving two Oreos into his mouth at once.

“Paul fuckin’ McCartney, ya daft twit! Is he here?”

“McCartney? Nope, haven’t seen him. Is he supposed to be here, John?” Harry turned his head sideways, like a puppy, and shot his older friend a look of complete confusion.

“Forget it, mate. May, I’m going out to the pool. Harry, help her put away all this shit, will ya. Earn yer bloody junk food for a change.”

John strolled out to the pool area, certain that Paul must be there, if anywhere, on the grounds of this sprawling California home. He knees buckled with nervous anticipation, as he opened the patio door to the backyard. Over in one corner, he spotted Ritch and Mal, both shirtless, playing cards in the sun, laughing and smiling.

“Alright, fellas. Who’s losing?”

“Alright, John. Me, of course. Back from the store?” Mal looked up, and asked innocently.

“No, Mal. I’m still at the store. Yer fuckin’ hallucinating, luv.”

“Ah, ya’ve sussed me, mate!”

“Where’s Macca, Ritch?”

“Dunno.” Ringo lifted his dark sunglasses to look up into John’s eyes. “Never showed. Must ‘ave changed his mind.”

“That right?” John looked around, his body gripped with disappointment and anticlimax, still half-expecting somehow to see Paul’s familiar profile, or a flash of his shiny black hair, or his round arse prancing about somewhere. But no, nothing.

No Paul.

Never bloody showed.

“Fuck it. I’m off for a kip. And Malcolm, don’t let Ritch nick all yer wages, ya twit!”

~~~~~~

The evening was turning out to be a fairly tame one, much more sedate than the house gang’s usual crazy, drunk antics. No wild benders, no parading around in daft costumes. Course, Keith was still passed out, and presumed down for the count for the rest of the night. May had fixed a nice dinner—roasted chicken and potatoes, with ice cream on the menu for dessert. Mal and Harry were helping her clean up, frolicking around, singing songs in the kitchen, as John and Ringo wandered out in to the darkness of the pool deck area to enjoy an after dinner brandy and a smoke. The only light came from the blue pool lamps, shining up from beneath the still water; the only sound, the constant, low hum of the electric pool filter.

“Well, that was bloody delicious. Shit, May’s a brilliant cook, John. Looks after ya quite well, I’d say. She’s a keeper, yeah?”

“What? What do mean by a fuckin’ keeper, Ritch? I’m bloody married, or did ya forget? May’s just a brief fix, a temporary bandage. Just like Paul was.”

Fuck. John was still in a morose, bitter mood. Good food and jubilant dinner companions hadn’t helped change his increasingly foul temper one bleeding bit. The fact that Paul hadn’t come round earlier certainly hadn’t fucking helped things, Ringo guessed. The drummer cringed at the thought of continuing the depressing, hurtful conversation.

“Shit, John. That’s bloody cold, son, even for you. Yer comparing what ya had with Paul to this weird affair shit that yer ‘aving with yer assistant? Ya can’t be serious.”

_“What I had with Paul…”_ John cringed with regret, as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass. He took a gulp of his drink, trying to swallow away the raw memories.

“Yer wrong, Richard. S’no different. It’s the same worthless horseshit. Just sex. A meaningless affair with no future. That’s all.”

“Listen, John. Ya can fool May, or Harry. Christ, maybe even yer wife, mate. But ya can’t bullshit me, ok? I dunno what yer doing here with May. But what ya had with Paul wasn’t worthless, John. It wasn’t a fuckin’ meaningless affair. It was you and Paul. It was— I dunno, different—special. I was there, remember?”

Ringo shook his head in disbelief at John’s callousness, when he happened to glance over at the gate that led in from the driveway. In the dark, he could see someone walking towards them. Fucking hell. McCartney. Perfect bloody timing, Paul!

Shit.

“Um, get ready, luv. Here comes your old bandage right now. Try not to be a complete fuckin’ prick, John. He’s leaving, remember?”

Ringo stood up, flicking his smoke to the ground.

“Hello there, Paul. We were expecting ya to show up a bit earlier, luv.”

“Um, yeah, sorry ‘bout that, Ritchie. Shit came up.” Paul ran his fingers through his long hair, noticeably anxious and uncharacteristically awkward. No bravado, no pomp. Just a complete mess of nerves.

The day had been hell, but not unusually terrible. Stella had performed a two-hour, blood-curdling tantrum; Mary was running a fever and threw up all over him, twice; in typical pre-adolescent fashion, Heather called him a ‘total bossy asshole.' That was lovely. And he and Lin got in another terrible row in front of the kids over bloody nothing. Great fuckin’ day! And that was all before lunch. Might as well end it with a few verbal jabs hurled at him by an angry, brooding, “fuck the world” Lennon.

Shit, though, Paul just had to see him again before he left. The sight of him, the sound of John’s velvet voice, still made him feel alive… feel like himself again. Even if that familiar comfort only lasted a few minutes, he’d take it, and all the crap that came with it. He still yearned for that lost feeling of completeness.

S’ides, fleeting moments were all he had left of John.

Of them.

“Hi, John.” Paul’s voice wavered a bit.

John hadn’t turned to look yet. He just sat there, hunched over, staring at his own hands, trying to will them to stop trembling, without much success. Finally, he turned his head back, and looked at his ex-lover. He had to chuckle inside. Macca had shaved off that awful moustache thing. John quickly figured that he’d gotten rid of it because of that wicked taunting from drunk Harry and Keith. Shit, those two pissed loons had acted out a hilarious skit about poor ‘Paolo’ — an out of work, sleazy Italian porn star. John smirked, without realizing it.

“Paul.” Though it was a bit too dark to see it in his eyes, McCartney could hear it in his ex-partner’s tone. John’s steel wall was up.

“I’m going back in for dessert. Want anything, you two?” Ringo asked, itching to get the fuck out of there, praying that they’d say no. They both said 'no' in unrehearsed harmony.

“Pretty bloody quiet ‘round here tonight. Did Moonie leave, then?” Paul walked around, and sat down in the lounge chair next to John. Sporting a white, button-down shirt and embroidered black trousers, Paul stretched out on his back like a cat, under the cover of the pool house roof. Shit, he was still so bloody beautiful. So fucking perfect. John handed him a glass of brandy, his hand still shaking slightly. Paul noticed.

“Keith blacked out, hours ago.”

“Shit. He’s not gonna be around too much longer at this rate, the poor sod.”

John wondered silently if Paul would say the same, sad truth about him one day.

“What are ya doing here, Paul?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. Back to Britannia and all. Just wanted to see ya again, I guess. We didn’t get much of a chance to really talk to each other at that jam session.”

_“Course he had to bring up that.”_ John groaned silently.

“It was great playing together again, wasn’t it?” Paul began to relax, though he couldn’t look straight at John, not yet.

“Yeah, it was. It was great. Yer still fuckin’ awful on drums, Macca, in case ya were wonderin’.”

“Ha! Look who’s talkin’. Folks in glass houses, John…”

John grunted with a smile, and swallowed another mouthful. As he reclined back on his chair, his feline eyes searched for the few stars straining to twinkle through the L.A. haze that blanketed the night sky.

“Can I ask ya something, Paul?”

“Course, anything. What is it, luv?”

“Are ya happy, Macca? I mean, really happy?”

Paul turned his gaze, finally, and saw the outline of John’s distinctive profile, highlighted in blue by the pool lights. Shit, how many times had he woken up to that perfect sight?

“Yeah, I am on most days, surrounded by me girls. They’re beautiful, yeah? And Lin’s great, a real keeper. And I keep busy with me band and recording and touring, ya know.”

“Fuck, Paul. You’ve never been alone, have ya? You’ve never fuckin’ known what it’s like to be really alone—abandoned…” John’s voice was weak and tired.

“Oh, I know what it’s like to be abandoned, John. Don’t ya remember? Ya learned me right well on that one, luv.”

Reeling from ache, John looked away to the side, while Paul kept staring at him, his eyes playing with the soft, amber curls of John’s hair. He could still remember how John’s hair smelled. It was so bloody specific, that smell. So intoxicating. Back then, it had lingered in the pillow that John had always used at Cavendish, for days afterwards. Until one morning, without any warning, Paul rolled over and John’s scent just wasn’t there anymore.

Paul didn’t know why the fuck he came back to Lennon’s California lair. Shit, this hurt. Some days, everything hurt. Those days when the whole world reminded Paul of what he’d lost. Even the sight of his innocent baby girls playing in the garden made him somehow think of John. He choked back a sob in the pit of his throat. John noticed.

“Christ, Macca. Yer not crying, are ya?” John finally turned, immediately ashamed at the bite of his mocking tone, and looked deep into Paul’s eyes. He began to drown in them, until Paul closed his heavy-lidded, damp eyes, and turned away from John, sitting up on the lounge.

“No, I’m not crying. But I am leaving. Early morning flight and all. Ta for the drink. Goodbye, John.”

“Paul. Wait, will ya?” Paul had already sat up, ready to rise to his feet. He froze, terrified and hopeful at the same time. John got up, and moved over to sit next to him on the edge of the chaise. Paul stayed quiet, waiting for John’s next verbal knife to run through his gut. Neither said anything for a few moments… only the droning sound of the pool filter filled the humid, heavy air. John swallowed another knot, and sighed.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I’m sorry for hurting ya, for fucking up everything.”

For a moment, they both stop breathing. The entire bloody universe seemed to halt for a split second.

“I’m the one who fucked it all up, John. A self-centered, spineless cunt, isn’t that what ya called me?”

“Wait one bloody minute! Yer not getting the credit for the cocked up disaster that is Lennon and McCartney. I’m the one who fucked everything up!” John teased, softly.

“Yeah, yer right. Ya did.” With a sad smile, Paul exhaled, still unsure of his words, but throwing caution to the wind, blindly optimistic, like he used to be… when he was with John. “Reckon we both did, luv. Equal billing, yeh?”

“Ya can put yer name first on this shit this time 'round, ok?”

Paul laughed, for real.

“Ya know, John. Me best mate once claimed that everyone has fucked everything up, at least once. Think that was back in India, yeah?” Paul chuckled again, but with disbelief, while his heart raced in his chest at breakneck speed. He never would have imagined, in a million fucking years, that this John would ever apologize to him. Shit, the crazy son of a bitch was bleeding unpredictable at times.

“Sounds like a daft wanker, yer mate.” John raked his fingers through his hair again, as he whispered the words much too close to Paul’s neck. Paul felt the warmth of his ex-lover’s breath on his skin. Shivers ran down the muscles of his back. He couldn’t see John’s left hand, floating and hovering there behind him, tracing a ghost of a caress in the air over his back.

_“Don’t ya dare touch him. He’s not yers anymore.”_ John chided himself, his body craving to feel Paul shudder again under his fingers.

“Watch, it, Lennon! Ya can torture me all ya want, but don’t fuck with him.” They couldn’t look at each other, not yet. Not during this. John took off his glasses, and buried his face in his hands, furiously rubbing his eyes.

“Ya should go home, Paul. Back to the hotel. Early flight, like ya said.”

“I still love ya…” The words spilled out before Paul could stop them.

“Paul, ya need to go home.” The searing pain in John’s jaw and neck was starting to spread down his spine, as he swallowed again.

_“Fuck, please make this stop! Make him stop!”_

Just then, Paul turned to face him, eye to eye.

“I love you, John. Always have, ever since that first snog. S’ppose I always will.”

“Fuck, Macca. Don’t do this.” John’s eyes said otherwise. Paul noticed.

Paul easily pushed John back, down onto the pool lounge chair.

“I’ll always love you. No matter what happens. No matter what bastard shit ya pull.”

“Get the fuck outta here…” John was pleading, weakly.

Paul ignored John’s words; he clearly saw the honesty in John’s wet eyes. As John lay there, panting with fear and something close to trust, Paul leaned down, his lips hovering over John’s mouth. They stared, the space between them filled with only their breathing. John closed his eyes, trying to break the spell, trying to spare Paul and his perfect world from any more of his savage jealousy and viciousness.

“There’s nothing left of me, Paul.”

Paul closed the small gap, as he cupped John’s face in his hand, their lips nearly touching. Almost touching.

“Bollocks.” With that, Paul took John’s lips, gently, without any more hesitation. They kissed softly, but greedily, famished after nearly six long years… tongues dancing in each other’s mouths, barely able or willing to stop and take a breath. John’s fingers quickly tangled in Paul’s dark hair, pulling him closer, grabbing a deep mouthful, and then he pulled Paul off him, looking up in desperation at the love of his life.

“Don’t do this, baby. Go home to yer beautiful family, yer perfect life. I’ve fucked things up enough. I’ve hurt ya so fuckin’ much. Paul, please bloody leave.” But John’s eyes spoke the truth…

_Love me._

_Fuck me._

_Save me._

“Sorry, John, but I can’t do that. I know that’d be easier for ya. Maybe even for me. But yer stuck with me. We have a signed contract, remember? I’ll call you, when I get back to London. And I better be able to fuckin’ reach you, when I want or I swear to god, I’ll be on yer doorstep, with me guitar, crooning the most fuckin’ granny-arsed shit you’ve ever heard. Understand?”

_“Fuck, the bitch would love that.”_  Paul snorted sarcastically to himself under his breath.

Paul’s lips descended again, as John’s wrapped his arms around Paul’s shoulders, pulling him down, draping a leg around him possessively. The snog was wet and sweet and deep, fucking perfect, as it had always been. Paul broke it this time, staring ferociously into John’s eyes. “I’m serious, John.”

“Ssshh, I’ll get a private phone number that ya can reach me at, ok?” John whispered, as if she could hear them from across the continent.

“Perfect. But John, luv. Shit, I’d never thought I’d ever fuckin’ say this. Listen, ya have to go back to New York. Yer gonna wind up like Brian Jones or Moonie if ya stay here, floating at the bottom of the pool or something. Go back, ok? Promise me. I won’t stand by and let ya slowly kill yerself with booze.”

“Paul?”

“Go home to New York, John. We’ll figure out a way to make us work. S’ides, yer other half won’t expect it from me. Thinks I’m a fuckin' stupid arse ponce, doesn’t she? But I’ll figure out a plan. Trust me, luv.”

“What about yer family, yer kids?”

“Hush. We’ll make it work. We have to make our love work, or the best parts of me will fuckin’ shrivel up and die. Yer bound to me, forever. Ya know that, right? It’s written in the stars, John.” Paul smiled with devotion, and flashed a sparkle of mischief.

“I love you, ya beautiful, conniving git.”

“Yeah, I know ya love me, Lennon. I know.”

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

  
_**8\. Tell each other the truth** _

 

**1967, London**

 

It was early afternoon on the last day of August, the air thicker than usual with heat and humidity. Snoring softly, John was nestled comfortably into his favorite pillow on Paul’s bed, tucked away safely at Cavendish. With pools of tears and moments of bittersweet laughter, he and Paul had spent the previous night sharing memories of their lost, beloved manager. Their dead, queer friend and confidant.

Now, naked and sweaty and tangled in the soft sheets, John rolled over restlessly, as Paul stood in the bathroom doorway and watched him, helpless to completely soothe John’s aching heart. Upon learning of Epstein’s death, John was utterly crushed and abandoned once again. Paul’s heart broke for him, for them both.

Despite the fact that they had made love just before dawn, Paul had woken up early, his head spinning with concerns about the future of the band. After he scratched his balls through his paisley pajama bottoms and brushed his teeth, Paul drew the bedroom drapes tight, trying to block out the light, and allow his fragile, broken lover to slumber fitfully for as long as he could.

“Fuck, what will we do without you, Brian?” Paul soon found himself anxious about what was yet to come, as he sipped his fourth cup of tea, his perfect arse resting on the brick steps that led down to his back garden. His button-down, pale blue linen shirt was already sticking to the perspiration on his shoulders and back.

An accident. That’s what they’d all decided. Too many pills for too fucking long. A slow, sorry spiral to the end, to death.

_“For Christ’s sake, Brian!”_  Paul cried in silence. For all Paul’s PR confidence, he was scared completely shitless. Could the band continue forward as they had before, could they survive without their mentor, without their depressed poof of a guardian angel? And what about John? Could he hold it together and carry on?

The air was deadly still. Paul took another sip of tea, looking out at the meditation dome. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t shake the image he’d conjured up in his mind of Brian lying unconscious on his fancy bed in his dear mansion, completely alone and dying. Paul lit a smoke as tears began to well up again. Could he have said something, could Paul have done something more? He tried to remember the details of his last conversation with Brian, but he couldn’t. He prayed that he hadn’t been nasty or bitchy, or just plain cold.

“Morning, luv.”

Paul looked up, shielding his wet eyes from the sunshine with his hand. “S’afternoon, Johnny. Get any rest?”

“Not much. Shit, it’s hot as hell already.”

John sat down on the steps, close beside Paul, their shoulders and hips naturally touching, as they always did. Wearing only a loosely tied, light colored dressing gown and his talisman necklace, John grabbed the cup out of Paul’s hand and took a long sip of lukewarm tea. Then he stole Paul’s lit smoke, taking a drag, before putting it back between Paul’s parted lips. Then John changed his mind, gently pulled the cigarette out and kissed Paul softly on the mouth. The kiss lingered, as John sucked affectionately on Paul’s full bottom lip, moaning quietly. Paul closed his heavy, exhausted eyes; their foreheads soon fell against one another.

“I love you, baby. We should say that more often.” John whispered, his pained features merely inches from his boyfriend’s mouth. “Life’s so fuckin’ frail, isn’t it?”

Paul leaned in and kissed John’s aquiline nose, his left thumb stroking the rough stubble along John’s jaw line. “Yeah, we should, ya know. Shit, I love you too, Johnny. Fuck, luv. This is hard. I still can’t believe he’s fuckin’ dead.”

“Do ya think Eppy was ever happy, Paul?”

“Yeah, I think so. Brian seemed happy as hell some of the time anyroad, ‘specially when we were on tour in the early days, watchin’ us play and all.” Paul took the last drag of his smoke, ground it out and then looked down at his bare toes, wiggling them against the brick pavement. “But he was never lucky when it came to real love, s’ppose. Never found his other half… the poor sod.”

“Lot of folks don’t. Rare thing to find, I reckon—yer other half.” John smiled sweetly at Paul, and sighed.

“Yeah, rare thing.” Paul returned the loving gaze.

They turned away from one another and sat there quietly for a moment, lost in thought. Paul leaned his head back down on John’s shoulder.

“Do ya think it’s harder for blatant queer blokes like Brian?”

“What do ya mean? What’s harder, Paul?”

“Life.”

“Dunno. S’ppose so. World’s a right fuckin’ cruel place, son.”

John kissed Paul’s hair and got up, off to put the kettle on again, scratching Martha’s matted fur behind her floppy ear as he passed through the back door into the kitchen.

They’d drink a shitload of tea that day.

Fuck.

 

~~~~~~

**1980, New York City**

The cool, biting rain was pounding Manhattan on an early spring evening, as John stretched out on his back on the enormous bed that was placed against one wall of his over-sized, sanitized sanctuary, cut off from the world outside. The dark winds that whipped through the city were smashing buckets of water against the glass panes of the large windows in his bedroom. Another drenching April storm: he hated storms, always had. So he was taking cover, hunkered down in his sterile, white room, hiding from the turbulent tempest, from them, from her, from fucking everything.

Lying upside down on the bed in a black T-shirt and ragged jeans, John had lifted his legs up, the soles of his bare feet braced against the top of the headboard. He lounged upside down like this often… it helped him relax somehow, and think. Above the upholstered fabric headboard, hung high on the wall, he studied the painting, the blobs and swirls of red and blue oil paint dancing across the surface. It was Stu’s painting. The one Sutcliffe created for John right before his untimely death. John had cherished the gift all these years, carefully dragging the canvas from home to home, storing it safely away when he had found himself temporarily homeless and adrift.

Now here it was, a priceless piece proudly displayed in their posh NYC apartment, one of the few tangible reminders that Lennon still had left of the past. Thinking it was only a sentimental keepsake from a dead college mate, she didn’t object to its prominent presence in his room. But ghoulish Stu had told him what it meant, hadn’t he? For John, the abstract painting in his bedroom was a constant reminder of Paul, especially young, beautiful Pollyanna Paul, as he was on that day when they’d made love in Stu’s studio, up in the attic of Astrid’s Hamburg home.

_“What the fuck happened, luv?”_ John tried not to cry, clutching the small, leather pouch in his hand tightly. How had they fucked everything up, again. It was all going fine. Great in fact. Well, not great, but it seemed to work, at least for a while.

Paul had bought a cozy flat for them, nestled away off a non-descript side street down in Soho. He’d purchased it years ago, secretly and anonymously, of course. The tiny apartment had a small kitchen, a bedroom, a comfy little lounge area, a bathroom and a romantic fire escape balcony.

The secret flat was spare, and simple, and unassuming. All they needed, really.

Their love nest, their New York City fuck fort, Paul had affectionately nicknamed it. John chuckled inside at the memory of the proud look on Paul’s face when he uncovered John’s eyes and first revealed the secret flat to Lennon. Ta-da! Paul had exclaimed, with pure happiness and satisfaction. How Paul squirmed in delight when he could surprise his lover. John loved surprises.

Since John had returned from California, they’d managed to spend long, lazy afternoons together on a fairly regular basis, what with Paul needing to make frequent trips to the States for business and what not. Fuck, the Wings front man would make up lies and daft excuses if need be… McCartney lived for those brief hours together with John in New York. It wasn’t nearly often enough, but it was good. They fucked and laughed and played tunes and made love in their New York hideaway, and spoke of promises and plans. Love bound them tightly to each other, sealed by a childhood contract, handwritten on old notebook paper.

A loud clap of thunder crashed and interrupted John’s reverie. Without warning, his shattered heart splintered and ached with loneliness.

_“Christ, what the fuck happened, luv?”_  John repeated to himself. He unzipped the pouch and took out the short piece of rubber tubing.

But then there was all of John’s immigration fight bullshit. Shit, Paul at least pretended to him that he understood that John couldn’t leave America and fly across the Atlantic to see McCartney; if he had tried to see Paul in London, John might have actually been prevented from returning to the States, and those fuckers would win. They were treating him like a wanted criminal, a dangerous political dissident worthy of pursuit, bloody government pig wankers!

John was positive they were tapping his phone lines as well, even his private line that he’d arranged for discrete calls with Paul. Paul had been furious with him, but John remained convinced by his crippling paranoia that the furtive calls to his secret lover had to stop. The feds could be listening.

The calls soon stopped.

The private line was disconnected.

_“That was the first straw. Wasn’t it, luv?”_ John choked and coughed, holding back another sob. He stared at the painting, as if he could find the answers there, in Stu’s rough strokes of pigment.

 

~~~~~

 

Shortly after New Year’s, five years earlier, Paul had made yet another quick trip to Manhattan; the bullshit excuse this time had revolved around preparations for another massive American tour. Fuck, he didn’t need to go to New York and handle that in person, but he needed to see John. Linda suspected what was going on, but said nothing; Paul always returned home to her and the kids much more content and calm and even humble. Paul’s frequent trips to New York just made her whirlwind life fucking easier. A brief calm, the peaceful eye of the storm in the Macca hurricane.

Paul arrived that evening in early January of 1975 later than expected, his flight delayed by weather, his dark suit wrinkled and rumpled. Standing in the small lift, making his way up to the top floor of the five-story brick building, he realized John was already there; he felt his presence, somehow heard John’s heartbeat. When he exited the elevator at their floor, he recognized the soft echoes of simple, rhythmic chords being played on an acoustic guitar. Paul froze for a moment in the dim hallway and smiled. For Paul, making music was as essential as breathing. For John, playing music was the same as making love.

He opened the flat door with his key and quietly walked the short distance from the lounge area to the bedroom, kicking off his polished, black dress shoes and socks, and loosening his tie.

He was home.

The door to the back bedroom was half opened. A small table lamp and two candles illuminated their small sanctuary, filled nearly to the brim with the bed. John was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, clad only in his boxers and socks. A nearby, flickering candle lit up the highlights of John’s soft maple curls; his eyes were narrowed and focused on his fingers dancing over the frets, the tip of his tongue stuck out through his thin lips in concentration. Christ, he was gorgeous. The sight of John never ceased to amaze Paul. Ever.

“Hello, luv.”

John stopped and looked up slowly, a grin spreading across his face.

“You’re late, Macca. Plane troubles again?”

“Damn bloody London weather. Couldn’t phone you. Can’t ever reach ya anymore when I need to.” Paul leaned against the doorframe, his armed crossed, looking annoyed and a tad bitchy.

“Paul, yer here now, ok. We couldn’t keep the phone line at me place. I explained that to ya. I love you. Relax, alright.” John’s raspy voice was low and deep, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of joy and lust. Paul’s breath hitched, his throat tightened; no one else looked at him in that way, with such wicked, devoted passion.

“Did ya bring along yer Christmas pressie that I got ya?”

“I’m wearing it, darling. Under my suit.” Paul calmed down and winked coyly, as his prick buckled and twitched, brushing up against the baby blue garter tickling him under his trousers. Shit, he’d worn John’s kinky lingerie gift all the way on the long journey from London, the soft lace teasing his balls the entire trip.

“Crawl over here to me.” It was a command, not a request.

“What?” Paul asked with a chuckle, not actually believing what he just heard.

“Ya heard me, darling. Down on the floor and crawl over here. I’ve been waiting fuckin’ hours for ya.”

“So this is punishment then?”

“Nah, just a dirty fantasy I’ve spun in me head while waiting for ya. C’mon, get down on all fours. And leave yer pretty suit on, for now.” John smirked, as put down his guitar, and reached his right hand under the waistband of his red boxers.

Intrigued and turned on like mad, Paul obeyed, crawling the short distance on his hands and knees. Shit, he missed this sweet submission. Panting with shallow breaths, he stared down at the wooden floor at the foot of the bed and waited there for John’s next move... his next order. John scooted down on his arse, draping his bare legs over the edge of the mattress. He reached down with his left hand and gently lifted Paul’s face by the chin, as his right hand roughly pulled out his thick, aching cock, already glistening wet with drops of precum. Paul understood without another word spoken; he rose to his knees and parted his full, moist lips in hunger. He hadn’t had John’s delicious cock down his throat in weeks; his tongue trembled in anticipation as he rubbed himself against the delicate lace. John slowly brushed the surface of Paul’s waiting lips with his swollen tip, teasing him with languid strokes.

“First, I’m gonna fuck yer beautiful gob, Paul.”

Paul closed his eyes and lifted his chin up slightly, parting his lips wider with eagerness. He groaned and waited for the hard heat to fill his famished mouth.

Later that night, after a long, slow session of sucking and fucking, they lay there together on top of the bed covers, soaked and satiated. Paul’s head rested low on John’s chest, his dark, damp hair tangled up in John’s fingers.

“So, you’ll come to London in the spring then?” Paul whispered the words into John’s skin, as if he were talking silently to only himself. He ran his left hand over the pale flesh of John’s abdomen, fluffing soft tufts of auburn hair between his thumb and forefinger.

“Paul, luv, I told ya I can’t go anywhere until me immigration shit is settled.”

“Why? Why can’t ya just fuckin’ leave America! There’s nothing here for ya.”

“Cause I just can’t. Leave it, ok.”

Paul got up off the mattress and left the room, naked except for the lace garter and headed for the kitchen. John followed him.

“I can’t go back, Paul. I can’t get stuck there, with no way out. There’s nothing for me left in England.”

“Julian’s there, John.” Paul didn’t turn around but just stood looking blankly inside the open fridge, his body backlit by the interior fridge light. “I’m fuckin’ there. We could get another flat in London, just for us.”

“I can’t. I couldn’t…”

“Ya couldn’t what?” Paul exhaled sharply in frustration.

“I couldn’t stay away from ya if I were back in England. I’d fuck everything up by showing up on yer doorstep, demanding yer attention. I couldn’t do it, not again.”

“So I’m s’pposed to travel to you all the fuckin’ time, when it suits yer schedule?”

“Rubbish! We see each other according to your fuckin' schedule, Paul. You bloody well now that!” John growled with growing impatience. “I’m stuck here, waiting for when ya have time to show up, right? When ya can get away from yer gaggle of little Maccas and yer fuckin’ shit band. I’m the one waitin’, Paul. Alone.”

“Shit, John. I’m getting’ tired of sneakin’ round like this, like bleedin’ criminals, behind their backs.” Paul turned around, his perfect naked form still dark in the shadows cast by the open fridge. “They both know, yeah? Our wives. They must.”

“Yeah, I know they do, luv.” John softened a bit.

Paul lit a cigarette, the flame from the lighter illuminating his features.

“Do ya think we could really make this work if we weren’t sneaking around like we always have?”

“What do ya mean by that?”

“What I’m trying to say is…Well, the hiding, the risks and the secrecy—it’s a big part of the thrill, right?” Paul exhaled a cloud of smoke into the darkness. “Shit, John, the danger of getting caught has been part of this—us—since the fuckin’ beginning, hasn’t it? Do ya ever wonder if everything would change if we didn’t have that? If we weren’t hiding anymore?”

“No, I’ve never wondered ‘bout that, Paul. Bloody hell…” John swallowed the familiar, bitter taste of Paul’s unwavering doubt and instincts for self-preservation. Fucking Paul still didn’t completely trust him. He turned, and walked off to the loo.

~~~~~~~

With a slight wince, John felt the familiar sting of the needle pierce his skin, followed by the warm, yet freezing rush of the high, worming its way through his veins, grabbing hold of his compliant body. It wasn’t as satisfying as it used to be. He had to shoot a fuckload more to get even close to how delicious it once felt.

The ocean’s distance, the difficulties communicating over the phone—it all mattered. It drove him and Paul apart, slowly but steadily. Then, they had their precious, improbable boys. Sean first, then baby James. Fatherhood and those perfect bundles of immortality changed things too.

It was ending, all over again, and they both knew it.

But it was the smack, John figured, that hammered the final nail in the coffin of Lennon and McCartney. Paul couldn’t cope with the heroin, with the addiction that controlled much of John’s life. Devastated his body. They’d finally let each other go that day, with the usual, expected shouts and screams and curses, pathetic, hurtful games to mask the sobs of regret. It had ended in 78, over two years ago, over the phone.

A tear ran down John’s cheek, as consciousness thankfully began to slowly slip away. Another brief, necessary respite from all of the pain and loss.

“John. Can you hear me?” Stu’s wistful voice cracked in horror at the sight of his best mate, curled up in a ball on the bed, drifting off willingly into heroin oblivion. “John, you have to get out of here. There isn’t much time.”

Nothing. John was leaving, floating down stream. Lost.

“John! Wake up, for fuck’s sake. Call him. Fuck…”

“Huh?" John opened his glazed eyes halfway. “What the fuck? Stu?”

Stu grabbed the phone of the nightstand and dialed the number to Paul’s secret Soho flat with his pale, trembling fingers. Paul had come to New York to finalize the paperwork to sell their hidden love fort. No one was supposed to know he was there, especially not John. Stu knew though. The phone rang three times, before he heard McCartney’s tired voice through the holes in the receiver earpiece.

“Hello?” Paul shifted the phone to his other ear. It was bloody one in the morning.

And then, somehow, Paul knew.

“John? It’s you, isn’t it? Are ya there? John?”

“John, answer him, ya stupid prick. Answer him.” Stu pleaded, crying. “He can’t hear me John. Only you can hear me. I can’t talk for ya, John. For shit’s sake, mate, talk to Paul. Say something!”

“Paul?” John whispered.

“John. How did ya know I was in New York? I just got to the Soho flat. What is it? John? Are ya ok?”

“No.” There was a long, excruciating pause. Paul’s breath caught in his throat. “I mean, yes. Everything’s fine. I’m leavin’, Paul. Can’t do this anymore. Bye, baby. Meet up with ya later.”

“John?”

Nothing.

“John! Ya stupid, fuckin’ son of a bitch! What did ya do? How much did ya take?”

Silence.

Through the receiver, Paul couldn’t hear ghost Stu shouting at John, shaking him violently to wake up. Sutcliffe was hysterical, and fuckin’ angry.

“John.” Paul stated his ex-partner’s name calmly. He was surprisingly steady, in control, with a possible, fucking risky plan already mapped out in his brilliant mind.

Shit.

Fucking hell.

Paul hung up the phone.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

  
_**7\. Jump down the fucking rabbit hole** _

 

**1966**

They were all crammed into a stuffy hotel suite, a drab space packed to the papered walls with a frothing sea of press scum. The cameras, the microphones, the lights—all shoved in their faces, buzzing and clicking and flashing. And behind this shield of metallic equipment, a mob of reporters rustled, some just staring at them, some smirking. Everyone was geared up for the next public flogging of the longhaired English heretic, John Pagan Lennon, M.B.E.

By late summer, this fucked-up, irrational fury over John’s “Bigger than Jesus” horseshit was climbing to a fever pitch in the American Bible Belt. For now, on this first leg of this U.S. tour, Epstein had his boys cloistered away in a ritzy hotel, holed up on the penthouse floor in an anonymous tower in hot, humid Chicago. Shit. The suffocating furnace of this latest publicity nightmare was already stoked to full blast, roasting them alive.

On the long, white couch in the interrogation room sat the four musicians. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, John was in the middle, flanked by his brothers in arms. Brian and Neil stood to the side, ready to intervene should things get out of hand. As Epstein made the introductory remarks to the swarm squatting in front of them, John gulped down another swallow of piss-warm water and chewed down hard on his gum.

His stomach was in knots.

His hands were shaking.

Paul noticed.

For his part, the bassist was spastically restless, constantly fidgeting in his seat. While he leaned back to re-cross his long, twitchy legs for the third time already, Paul invisibly brushed John’s lower back gently, with his right hand, in reassurance.

They’d survive this bleeding fracas…

_“Bloody fuckin’ mongrels… sniffing for any whiff of a cock up.”_  Paul snarled under his breath.

With a frustrated huff, he lit another smoke, and rested his chin in the heel of his palm. Paul’s inner emotions were carefully obscured by his seemingly genuine, placid smile. Inside, he was fucking screaming profanities. But he kept silent… and close by John’s side.

John was gutted, and shit scared; Paul could feel his boyfriend’s frayed nerves bristling through the light wool fabric of their summer suits. McCartney had to at least try to keep this under control.

They’d get through this latest heap of press rubbish, together.

Slowly, the room quieted to a blunt hush, as the first weasel cleared his throat to belch out the opening question.

**Q:** "Mr. Lennon, we've been hearing a great deal of interpretations of your comment regarding the Beatles and Jesus. Could you tell us what you really meant by that statement?"

**John:**  "Uhh. I'll try and tell ya. I was sort of deploring the attitude that... I wasn't saying whatever they were saying I was saying, anyway. That's the main thing about it. And uhh, I was just talking to a reporter - but she also happens to be a friend of mine and the rest of us - at home. It was a sort of in-depth series she was doing…”

_“Ha! An “in depth series…”_  Paul shifted his weight to his other hip, away from his lover. _“Fuck, John! Yer not s’pposed to actually talk to the birds ya shag ”in depth”, ya careless git… ‘specially not ‘bout religion and other shit taboos! Ya know Cleave’s a fuckin’ reporter, you stupid son of a…”_

Paul boiled inside, as he squirmed in his seat. Yet, without thinking, he was soon pressed up close to John again on the hotel couch. It felt natural to touch him, even when Paul was fuming upset with Lennon’s recklessness.

Despite the curses churning silently in his mind, McCartney’s flawless face kept smiling politely, and nodding at the appropriate moments. He was the picture perfect of collected, cool beauty. Few could see in his eyes the resentment, the anxiousness, the fucking weariness of touring… of catering to John’s unpredictable demands and debilitating insecurities, day in and day out.

**John:**  “ ... I didn't mean it the way they said it. It's amazing. It's just so complicated. It's got out of hand, you know. But I just meant it as that - I wasn't saying the Beatles are better than Jesus or God or Christianity… ”

_“Shit, baby… this could get serious.”_  Paul tried to distract himself by fingering a fluff of lint stuck to his suit sleeve.  _“Worse than the fuckin’ Philippines! Now we gotta deal with fuckin’ shotguns and racist bigots. Bloody hell. And what is Brian doing about it then?”_  Paul nonchalantly lifted his sultry eyes and glanced over at Brian, nervously rocking to and fro in the corner, like a trapped rodent.

_“Useless, daft prat.”_

**John:** “I just never thought of repercussions. I never really thought of it... I wasn't even thinking, even though I knew she was interviewing me, you know, that it meant anything."

_“Repercussions?”_  Paul chuckled silently, and ground out his smoke in the ashtray.  _“When have you ever thought about the fucking repercussions of anythin’, darling?”_

**Q:** "What's your reaction to the repercussions?"

_“He fuckin’ terrified, ya cunt! Can’t ya see that? We all are. First we’re threatened and shoved about in bloody Manila, and now this spectacle! He’s gonna fuckin’…. Christ, I’m gonna fuckin’ crack.”_

Paul fought to keep a grip on his rage and worry. With a long exhale, he sighed into his palm, shifting his weight on the couch, feeling John’s warmth rub comfortably against his right thigh. He pressed back against John’s leg protectively.

**John:**  "… and all those miserable looking pictures of me looking like a cynic, and that. And they'd go on and on and it'd get out of hand, and I couldn't control it, you know… “

_“We gave up control fuckin’ ages ago, luv...on that snowy day that we signed Brian’s contract. Part of our pact with the devil himself, luv.”_  Paul took a sip of tepid water from the glass in front of him.  _“Fuck, I did not just think that…”_

**Q:** "A disc jockey in Birmingham Alabama, who really started most of the repercussions, has demanded an apology from you."

_“What! Bollocks… a fuckin’ apology? Stuff it! John’s done nothing to apologize for, ya bastard!”_ Paul mindlessly nibbled down hard on his thumbnail. John shifted his weight, leaning back against Paul’s right shoulder.

Without making a sound, the two musicians spoke volumes to each other through the movements of their bodies, by the rhythm of their breaths. It was a silent, secret conversational dance they’d long ago perfected.

**John:**  "He can have it, you know. I apologize to him if he's upset and he really means it, you know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said it for the mess it's made. But I never meant it as a lousy or anti-religious thing, or anything. You know, and I can't say anymore than that. There's nothing else to say really, you know - no more words. But if an apology - if he wants one, you know, he can have it. I apologize to him."

_“And that, right there, arsehole… is the best, goddamn admission of anything yer ever gonna get from John, ya fucker!”_ Paul smirked like a defiant she-wolf, his chin still cupped in his hand.

A moment later, John got a brief break from the Jesus inquisition, as questions about other touring nonsense were directed at George. Seated at the opposite end of the couch from Paul, the scowling guitarist spat out his sarcastic, curt answers to the daft questions; Harrison was almost as pissed off as Paul was… and nearly as protective of his lifelong leader. And George said as much, defending John to the papers!

John tried to relax his tensed muscles during the brief respite from the never-ending, repetitive Christianity questions. As he reached down to grab the cigarette pack off the low table in front of them, he brushed his left shoulder hard against Paul’s body, with tender intention. A gesture of thanks. Paul was there by his side, as always. Course, so were Harrison and Richard, but he wasn’t planning on fucking either of them later.  
   
 _“Yer welcome, luv.”_ Paul hummed to himself silently, as he caught John’s eye.

Finally, ten minutes or so later, the grueling press conference was over. Like escaped convicts, the group bolted out quickly into the hotel hallway, racing back towards the bank of elevators. While the inner circle waited impatiently for the lift to arrive, to take them back up five floors to the relative sanctuary of their private suite of rooms, John snorted softly into Paul’s ear.

“Holy fuckin’ hell. Ya were right, luv. That was the only half-arsed apology those cunts were getting’ outta me.”

Paul froze, and turned to look into John’s tired eyes; the bassist’s arched eyebrows tightened immediately in confused suspicion.

_“Fuck. I didn’t say that out load, I don’t think.”_

John’s strained, exhausted features quickly softened into that stunning expression that was John’s alone. And then slowly, he grinned, nodding his head toward the elevator door.

“Lift’s here, Macca…”

“I’m impressed, John.” Paul practically whispered over his left shoulder, as they settled back in the far corner of the lift. He crossed his arms, and pursed his lips. “Ya did well back there, ya know. Brilliant. Ya stayed in control, and said the right things and all.”

“Paul? Are ya doubtin’ me again? Ya’ve gotta have some faith, luv.” In the crowded lift car, John laughed quietly into Paul’s dark hair. Lennon was knackered as all hell, but even he immediately recognized that his soft tone made him sound like a lovesick bird.

_“Sod it. They’re all close mates. S’ides, they can’t hear me.”_ John decided.

Standing behind McCartney in the lift corner, John ran his hand over the suit fabric that tightly enveloped Paul’s round bum.

_“They all fuckin’ know ‘bout us anyroad, don’t they.”_  John mumbled silently.

Out of obvious view, John’s right hand quickly wrapped around and roughly cupped Paul’s crotch through his light wool trousers. Paul silently swallowed the unexpected gasp of air that exploded in the back of his throat. Years of practice.

Shit, John needed some sweet Maccaloving, he needed to bury himself inside Paul. But he was crashing hard from the release of the tension, and the jet lag, and the adrenalin draining from his veins, never mind those two quick glasses of top-shelf scotch before that press circus. He was so bloody fucking zonked. Without realizing it, John rested his forehead against the back of Paul’s head, burying his nose into those thick, soapy-smelling locks. His breathing slowed. His heavy eyelids were closing…

~~~~

“So… where’s John?”

“Kippin’. Why do ya wanna fuckin’ know, Geo?” Seated on the edge of one of the upholstered wing chairs in the main room, Paul was too defensive, too on edge.

“What’s with the fuckin’ “why do ya wanna know”, mate? Don’t play Lennon’s guard bitch with me, Paul.” Harrison snapped back, still tense from the press grilling.

Despite all the insanity of fame and the relentless touring, Harrison still loved McCartney, sort of—fucking smarmy tosser. Shit, he loved them both: bitchy Paul and loony Lennon, God help him. George pulled out a joint from his trouser pocket, lit it, took a long drag, and then offered Paul what George knew was his band brother’s favorite distraction, besides John and music, and whatever queer shit Paul did behind closed doors.

Though it had been years since he’d found out about them, George still hadn’t completely wrapped his brain around this bizarre poof arrangement between his two best mates and his near constant companions. But at least Harrison was trying to understand, for fuck’s sake. Shit, everyone in the inner circle was trying to support or at least cope with John and Paul, in their own way.

George’s preferred method of coping was to talk openly with Paul, but only when they were alone, and completely bloody avoid altogether the topic of bum fucking with John. Wasn’t perfect, bit awkward at times, but it seemed to work.

Lately though, when plastered off his head, John seem to relish blurting out slurred innuendos about arse fucking, particularly banging Paul’s arse, in front of George, and Ringo… and Neil… and Mal… shit. George reckoned that John got off on Paul’s flush of embarrassment. Prick.

“Cor!” Paul exhaled the sweet smoke, and buried his head in his hands, rubbing his fingers furiously through his hair. After a few moments of collection, and he looked up at George, his carefully combed locks now comically disheveled. “Me nerves are shot. Long fuckin’ day… week… shit, long fuckin’ year already. Sorry, Geo. Didn’t mean to bark at ya.”

George sat down in the armchair across from Paul in the main room of their Chicago suite.

“S’nothin’. Listen, John’s always had a big fuckin’ mouth. But this time, it was the press parasites that started this fuckin’ nonsense, Paul. Bit of a rough patch is all, yeah?”

Paul looked up again sharply, and with dead seriousness in his eyes.

“It’s gotta stop, Geo.”

“What, mate?” Shit. George panicked silently. Are they breaking up, or whatever the hell queer blokes do?

“Touring like this, Geo. It’s a relentless mental ward on wheels… or wings now, I s’ppose. Ya can see it, right? We gotta stop touring like this. John’s losing it. Fuck, we’re all going barmy!”

“Cor! What is  _this_  then?” George snorted with relief, sporting a wide, toothy grin. “Yer not as thick as ya look, are ya, McCartney?” Harrison leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Yer right… it is time to stop, Paul. It’s a bloody surreal feedin’ frenzy. Last tour for a while, ok?” George stuffed out the roach into the ashtray on the coffee table. He looked up at Paul with those dark, handsome eyes. “Oi, ya’ve already told John that ya feel this way, right?

“No, I ‘aven’t, not yet.”

“Christ, Paul. Bloody tell him, will ya! I reckon it’ll be welcome. Ya have a plan, right? He’ll be expecting one then.”

“Dunno ‘bout a plan. Shit, Geo—it’s gonna devastate Brian if we stop touring.” As he searched George’s face for empathy, Paul’s sad eyes glistened with the first wetness of tears. He sucked on two of his long fingers to try and dam up the flow. The end of touring also meant the end of long, lazy mornings cuddling and fucking John in posh hotel beds.

“Brian’ll be alright, he’ll manage. He’ll buy a theater or something, produce daft musicals. I dunno.” George chuckled at the image. “But yer right. His mad touring schedule is gonna fucking destroy us. Talk to John, yeah?”

Paul pulled his wet fingers out of his mouth, slowly.

“Yeah.”

~~~~~~

With a turn of the lock, Paul shut their bedroom door quietly. The heavy drapes were drawn, the room was still and dark; the stale hotel air stank of cigarettes and roses. The only sound was John’s heavy breathing. Out cold, finally.

Silently, Paul stripped, peeling off the remnants of his suit, then his socks, and then his pants… everything, before slipping his lean, hairy bareness under the plush bed covers. He didn’t intend to wake his lover up, but spooning a barely-dressed John Lennon, clad only in his socks and underwear, from behind… with your naked body, was just too delicious for Paul to pass up. He needed comfort too, for shit’s sake. It had been a long fuckin’ day… and they had a concert that evening. Maybe they had another couple of hours before it all started, again. Bloody hell.

As Paul wrapped his left arm around John’s waist, and nuzzled his face against the white T-shirt, rubbing his nose between John’s shoulder blades, the guitarist stirred.

“Hmm?”

“S’just me, luv. Hush, go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

Shit. John heard it clearly in Paul’s voice, that nagging squeak to McCartney’s words when his partner needed to discuss some band shit or other business crap.

“What is it?”

“S’nothing, sleep. We can talk later.”

“Ya know I adore yer lovely prick grindin’ against me arse, Paul, but ya fuckin’ woke me up, baby. So, now I’m awake. What is it?”

“I been thinkin’, John…”

_“Fuck.”_ John groaned silently into the fluffy pillow.

“I been thinkin’ that we should stop tourin’ for a while, ya know. Stay in London, get back into the studio more, focus on our music and such.” Paul held his breath; this was a bloody huge decision for the whole band… shit, for everyone… a radical change that the group leader should be proposing, not him. But fuckin’ hell, somebody had to do it!

John froze, half in shock, half in fear. He didn’t turn around to face Paul. He only grabbed Paul’s hand that was resting against his stomach and squeezed tightly.

“Paul, are ya fuckin’ serious? Stop touring?”

“Yeah.”

“No more touring means no more time alone together, no more time not sneakin’ about. Ya know that, right.” John turned his head around, eyes narrowed, and grabbed Paul’s face with his left hand. “Are ya breaking up with me, Macca? Is that what this is?”

“What? No! Shit, John…”

“Then why? You love all this touring shit. Why do ya wanna stop?”

“Why? Cause it’s killin’ us, luv. And no, I don’t love it, not like this. It’s nothing more than a freak circus show at this point, luv. We can’t hear ourselves play, we can’t leave the fuckin’ hotel. And now with this latest Jesus horseshit…”

John looked away, before turning back again to face Paul’s frustration.

“Can’t take me anywhere, can ya?” John smirked with strain and worry.

Chuckling affectionately, Paul lightly kissed John’s lips.

“It’ll be fine, John. You’ll see. We’ll just figure out something else. Another way to spend time together back home. I’ll buy us a country cottage or something…”

Paul words were quickly muffled by John’s mouth, as he pulled the naked lad up and on top of his body. After he explored Paul’s mouth for a while, John scooted himself down under Paul, trailing his lips along his stubbled neck. Propped up on his elbows, Paul lifted his hips to encourage John’s mouth to wander freely over Paul’s stomach, free to nibble kisses down low. Lower.

“Where is it?” John mumbled into Paul’s abdomen. Paul snickered, and looked down under.

“It’s where it always is, luv.”

He blew a long, sloppy raspberry into his dark path of soft belly hair.

“Where’s the cottage yer gonna buy me, ya nit?”

“Wherever ya want it to be, Johnny.” John wrapped his lips around Paul. “Hmm, hush now, baby. Be quiet.” Paul whispered in a high pitch.

John pulled off, almost. “Ya starting to sound like Cyn, Paul.”

“That right?” With one thrust, Paul ended that conversation. John chuckled around the heat of Paul’s prick, jammed in the back of his throat.

After several minutes of sucking and licking, John pulled off again. Paul groaned; he was only a few more strokes away from exploding. John reached over and grabbed the tube of lube out of the nightstand drawer.

~~

“Alright, Geo. Oi, where’s John?”

“Alright, Ritch. John’s kippin’.”

“Good.” Ringo answered softly, as he sat across from Harrison and poured himself a full glass.

~~

He sat up, with his broad, T-shirt clad back propped against the pillows up by the headboard. John slapped his stomach and growled. “Up, then.” As Paul shuffled over on his knees and straddled John’s hips, he watched his lover slather the oily lubricant up and down his cock. Shit. Paul leaned down and grabbed John’s mouth with his lips and tongue, while John pulled in his outstretched legs and raised his knees up. John broke the wet kiss.

“Sit yer sweet, tight arse down, Macca. Right on me, luv.”

~~

“Oi, where’s Paul?” Mal asked in his soft, low voice, as he entered the main room carrying a tray of tea.

“Waking John up, s’ppose. Been in there a while.” George huffed sarcastically.

Mal froze in mid-stride. Silence.

~~

Eyes closed and lips parted, Paul impaled himself on John slowly at first, an inch at a time, until John got impatient, grabbed Paul’ by the hips and shoved him down hard. The bassist’s lusty moan filled the empty space of their hotel room.

~~

“Do ya think they’re gonna want a cuppa?” Mal wondered out loud.

“Wouldn’t pour it just yet, Mal. Might be a while.” George raised one bushy eyebrow, as he shoved a lemon biscuit in his mouth.

~~

“Holy… fuck… Christ…”

“None of that now, beautiful boy.” John snarled, as he drove his hips up in furious rhythm, carrying Paul closer and closer. Paul was bracing himself by his palms, gripped hard onto John’s shoulders. He leaned down again to take another mouthful of John’s tongue as the waves of the rising orgasm raced through his gut. At last, John wrapped his hands around Paul’s aching prick, stroking him to oblivion.

Paul was a screamer.

~~

“Lovely, McCartney!” George shouted low over his right shoulder towards their bedroom, and then took a long sip of tea. “And we’re fuckin’ fussin’ over this Jesus shit, for Christ’s sake.”

Everyone chuckled.

Silence.

“Well, should be a bloody good show tonight.” Ringo finally snorted into his glass of Scotch.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

  
**1980, New York City**

The sheets of rain were threatening to break the windows of the taxi, as it sped through the relatively empty, dark streets of mid-town Manhattan. In the back seat, Paul ran his long fingers through his thick hair, again; with a lump of bile burning in the back of his throat, he looked out through the fogged up glass at the sinister swirls of passing buildings, at the streaks of neon lights flashing through the drops. Although it was already April, an icy shiver ran up his spine. He pulled his wool jacket around his chest, his knuckles clenched white in the navy blue fabric.

_“What the fuck ‘ave ya done, John? Did ya fuckin’ overdose? Christ... ”_

Paul swallowed another sob, trying to muffle the sound loop of John’s desperate, defeated words playing over and over in his mind. As the cab raced up Central Park West, he couldn’t stop the tears. They began to spill out of the corners of Paul’s eyes, trickling down over his round cheeks.

Fuck.

Finally, the taxi came to a sudden stop in front of the spooky, Gothic style apartment building. Paul payed the fare, and grabbed the door handle. Without hesitation, he pulled his wool jacket up over his head, and bravely stepped out into the raging thunderstorm.

Several stories above the soaked street, John’s faithful scoundrel of an assistant puttered around the large kitchen of Lennon’s ostentacious flat. On nights like this, he had the well-equipped, cavernous space all to himself.

The kid was sleeping, tucked away safe and under the constant watch of his doting, Chinese nanny.

John was passed out and oblivious in his sanitized cage of a room, as usual.

She was gone, off with her latest distraction, as always.

Fred felt like fucking king of the world, as he reclined back in the antique kitchen chair, gulping down another swallow of expensive liquor, sucking on another illegal Cuban cigar. A flash of lightening, followed close by a clap of thunger, lit up his smug features. He was master of fucking Manhattan, the trusted sidekick of a millionaire, strung-out, rock star has-been. A very ex-Beatle. Free reign on nearly anything Fred’s heart desired. Best fucking job in the world!

Life was good for Fred.

A loud banging on the front door jolted him out of his comfortable daze, nearly knocking him off his chair.

“Who the hell is that? Shit, maybe she forgot her key? Fuck, man.” Fred grumbled, as he scampered like a scared mouse over to the large, heavy entry door. Rising up on his tippy-toes, he spied through the small peephole.

“What the shit…?” He inhaled deeply, and nervously opened the massive door. The door was no more than a few inches ajar when the drenched man on the other side abruptly pushed it wide open with one violent, unwavering shove.

“How did you get up here unannounced?” Fred squeaked, overwhelmed by the captivating, intimidating energy that now filled the foyer.

“I’m Paul fuckin’ McCartney. That’s how. Where is he?”

Christ, Fred thought, McCartney was spectacular. He’d never actually seen the man in person.

"Where the fuck is he!"

“John?”

“Yes, John, ya daft shit. Where is he?”

The assistant’s eyes were stupidly frozen wide open. Working for a drugged-out, self-absorbed Lennon was one thing; standing in front of this ferocious, breathtaking force was something else entirely. Shit. Seaman was dumbstruck.

“Uh… in his room, I think.”

“Is she ‘ere?”

“No.”

“Show me again where his room is, now!” Paul snarled. Fred turned and scampered down the long hallway towards John’s private enclave, followed on his heels by the purposeful strides of one panicked, sopping-wet best mate… a frantic ex-lover.

The American twit suddenly stopped in front of a grand, dark mahogony door. “Here. It’ll be locked though. He always locks the door.”

Shit.

“John! Open the fuckin’ door, luv! John!”

“He can’t hear you. He shot up. John’s strung out cold. Unconscious, man.”

“How much did he do?”

“The usual. He’s been shooting up a shitload lately.”

“Where’s the bloody key for this?” Fred could see the twinges of terror lighting up Paul’s eyes.

“There’s a spare key in the pantry drawer. I’ll go get it.” As he ran toward the kitchen, even the spoiled rat was beginning to get anxious. Shit, what if Lennon died on his watch? Fuck.

“John…” Paul spoke softly, pressing his cheek up against the smooth surface of the wooden door, turning the locked handle again, as if it would magically open just for him.

“Here’s the key…” Fred was out of breath, with beads of sweat streaming down his forehead. Paul grabbed the shiny piece of metal from the weasel’s shaking hand, and put it in the keyhole.

Twist. Click.

The lock opened.

“Now get the fuck outta ‘ere! Don’t go too far though. Wait in the kitchen or somewhere. Got it?”

Fred nodded and scurried away, as Paul took a deep breath and slowly pushed opened the door.

Shit.

Even though John’s room was dark, Paul could tell that everything was white. A second later, a flash of lightening briefly illuminated the stark space.

Everything was fucking sterilized white, except for dead Stu’s colorful, abstract painting, hung high on the wall over the headboard. Those vibrant, meaningless swirls of red and blue.

_“Yer still muckin’ about in his life then, Sutcliffe?”_  Paul huffed without making a sound.

Another flash.

And then Paul saw him… the lump, curled up like an infant, on the bed. Even through the noise of the rain, Paul could hear his low, shallow breathing. John was alive.

“John?”

Nothing.

Paul turned on a small lamp and carefully padded his way over to the edge of the king-sized mattress; he stripped off his wet jacket and kicked off his shoes. Slowly he reached down, the fingers of his left hand were trembling. Shit, he hadn’t seen him, hadn’t fucking touched him in nearly two years.

Without thinking, Paul’s hand gravitated to John’s auburn hair, the only part of his ex-lover than hadn’t changed that much. With gentle, protective strokes, Paul’s wet eyes took in the sight. His once muscular, defiant leader was now frail… emaciated… defenseless. Even those tight, old jeans looked too baggy; John’s black T-shirt hung like a cloth sack over his thin frame. His beautiful face was sunken and sallow.

_“How the fuck did this ‘appen?”_ Sucking down on his bottom lip, Paul cried out silently, forcing himself to stay quiet. Without making a sound, Paul move slowly up onto the bed, and from behind, wrapped his warm, damp body around John’s slight form. Shelter against the storm.

“John, luv. It’s Paul. I’m ‘ere.” John stirred ever so slightly, and then nothing. Stillness. Silence. No sounds, save for the buckets pummeling against the windowpanes and the rhythm of their breaths. Paul ran his left hand over John’s torso, feeling the ridges of his ribcage rise and fall beneath the thin cotton fabric. He remembered how comforting this used to be, spooning mornings away against John’s solid, broad body, melting into his intoxicating heat.

“Fuck, luv, ya gonna be alright. Well, yer a fuckin’ smack junkie, but at least yer bloody alive.”

As he buried his face in John’s hair, Paul began to choke up from the release of the tension, the relief from the fear. It felt so good to smell him, embrace him, even in John’s fragile, drugged stupor. Paul decided right then that he’d just fuckin’ stay here a while, hold him. He’d leave before dawn. John would be out cold for hours, from the sounds of it.

She’d never know.

As Paul started to peel off his wet trousers, he glanced over at a white desk pushed up against a wall, crammed with papers, books, sketches, and other assorted John crap. On top of a green, paperback book sat his round wire glasses, carefully folded. Beneath the table, resting on the floor was an exotic, elaborately carved wooden storage chest. Paul’s eyes widened with recognition.

_“Shit! That’s the box I bought for him back in Japan on that fuckin’ nightmare of a tour.”_

Paul crawled off the bed in his plaid boxers and mostly unbuttoned, pink dress shirt, and walked over to the writing desk, squatting down to reach the ornamental wooden container. It was locked with a combination.

As he sat his boxer-clad arse down on the carpet, Paul ran his fingers through his hair again. What could the bloody code be? Maybe it was Sean’s birthday? No, too many numbers. John’s birthday? Too obvious. And the same too many fucking numbers, ya moronic twit. Hmm, 9091? Too daft, wouldn't be like John to pick something that daft.

But he tried all number sequences just the same and none worked.

_“C’mon, Macca, ya stupid prick! What is it?”_  Paul chided himself, as he sucked on his ring finger.

After a couple more minutes, Paul sighed and reluctantly turned the dials to the numbers that he prayed were right. What if they were wrong? What if they didn’t work?

9-9-5-8

September 9, 1958. Their private anniversary. The day of their first real snog. A sinfully delicious first tongue fuck in the drizzly mist under a tree. On that bleedin’ golf course, in Woolton. Only he and John knew the significance of that date.

The box opened.

Fuck.

Paul hesitated to lift the carved cover. This was John’s personal shit—shit John kept locked up. He shouldn’t be going through this shit, it wasn’t right. Well, at least Paul couldn’t ever tell anyone about what he found if he opened this box and went through John’s shit.

Yeah, that worked.

After a quick glance back at his passed out ex-boyfriend, Paul raised the wooden top of the box, bending it back on its metal hinges. It held only papers. Old pieces of paper slightly yellowed and creased. The songs, Paul realized almost immediately, without having to touch a single folded sheet. The songs Paul had written for John for his birthdays, starting with “And I love her”... it looked like they were all there, probably in chronological order or something, knowing John’s weirdly erratic fastidiousness.

Paul lifted off the first sheet on the top of the pile and unfolded it carefully. His lyrics to ‘I Will’, written on expensive stationary, in Paul’s distinct, birdish style. Paul wrote the lyrics in long hand, all over again, for John’s 37th birthday. Shit, that wasn’t all that long ago, really.

~~~~~~

“Paul? Where the fuck are ya? I want me cake!” Seated cross-legged and stark blooming naked on their oversized mattress, John whined and bounced in deliberate exaggeration like a child. He only got to act like this anymore… silly and spastic and laddish… when he was with Paul.

Paul suited him. John smiled and sighed.

In the tiny kitchen of their secret Soho fuck fort, McCartney was putting the finishing touches on a birthday cake he made, all by himself. For John.

“Are ya seven, or thirty-seven, John? Patience, son!” Paul barked, with an affectionate snork. He shoved the icing-covered spatula between his lips, and stuck as many candles as he could cram into the surface of the round, chocolate cake thing. Perfect.

Wearing only his silk pajama bottoms, Paul carried the lit cake into the bedroom mumbling, “Close yer eyes!”

With the song lyric sheet folded tightly inside, the gift box was bulging through Paul’s pajama pocket.

“Ta-da! Happy birthday, luv!”

“Mmm. Happy to see me then, are ya?” John raised an eyebrow with a smirk, as he strolled over naked, slowly pulling the spatula out between Paul’s icing-covered lips. His right hand brushed Paul’s crotch, as John licked traces of chocolate off his lover’s mouth.

“Blow the candles out and stop lusting after me bulges, Lennon.”

“So, is that me song pressie ya got in yer bulgin' pocket? Hand it over, Macca!” John reached in Paul’s silk pocket, caressed his boyfriend’s balls, and pulled out the gift box, carefully wrapped in colorful paper.

“Yeah, but John, s’not new, luv. It’s an old song. I first wrote it for ya when we were together in India. I was gonna give it to ya for a different birthday, but um… it didn’t work out.”

John froze for a second, fingering the small box in his hands; he tore his gaze from Paul’s beautiful eyes and unfolded the paper stashed inside. He swallowed. “Ya wrote ‘I Will’ for me? That’s one of yer better, sappy arsed songs, luv.”

“Really? I thought ya hated it, John.”

John chuckled, as he shook his head and wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist.

“Will ya marry me someday, Macca?”

“What? Sod off! What—yer serious?” Paul winked, as he lifted up a forkful of the molten chocolate treat. “Yeah, s’ppose. Now have some of me cake. It’s chocolate fuckin’ decadence, birthday boy!”

The crotch-ripping birthday blowjob came minutes later, followed by Paul’s body slathered in creamy, chocolate icing, of course. It was John’s birthday, after all.

~~~~~~

Paul refolded the sheet of paper. Fuck, that bloody song! India. Then the Apple launch. The beginning of that first end…

While cautiously putting the lyric sheet back on the top of the pile in the box, Paul noticed an oddly shaped piece of thin cardboard, covered in scotch tape. He pulled it out from the center of the paper pile, only to realize that it was a homemade collage, a reconstruction of those bits of paper that had fluttered to the floor in front of John’s eyes in the studio that terrible day. The original lyric sheet for ‘I Will’, John’s 28th birthday present. Never properly delivered.

Paul breath hitched; his heart collapsed a little.

Fuck. John had saved the scraps; he had put the ripped bits back together and stored it away safely, all these years. So, he already knew that Paul had written that love song for him, cagey fucker!

Paul held his breath as his delicately lifted the entire stack of folded sheets.

At the very bottom of the box, he finally found what Paul was really looking for, feverishly hoping that he would find.

_“Cor, there it is.”_  Paul whispered to himself, his beautiful face erupting into a full Macca smile.

It was John’s copy of their contract, in Paul’s handwriting. The sheet of notebook paper was a bit wrinkled and sort of brittle, but still durable and resilient… like him and John. As Paul scanned the list of rules, his eyes lingered over his own handwritten letters that spelled out rule number seven.

7\. Jump down the fucking rabbit hole.

It was one of the rules that John had added to their contract all those years ago.

Shit.

Without warning, Paul sprang up, his eyes hard as steel. He marched towards the kitchen, the beat of his steps helping him finalize the risky plan crystallizing in his mind. Shit, he needed help if he was gonna pull this off.

Who could help him?

Who could he ring at the last minute in fucking New York?

Who the hell could he trust?

“Where’s a fuckin’ phone?” Paul growled at John’s hapless gopher, parked at the kitchen table. Fred just stared for a few seconds at the dark-haired musical legend who was, unexpectedly, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned pink dress shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Over there, on the wall.”

Paul grabbed the receiver, thought for a few seconds, and ran back to John’s room. A few moments later, crumpled piece of paper in hand, Paul returned, slightly out of breath, and dialed a number. Shit.

“Hello?” A man answered.

“Hello, Jürgen? It’s me, Paul. Yeah, I’m in New York. Listen, Jürgen. I need yer help, mate. Can ya get a car and meet me at John’s building. Yeah… the Dakota building. Twenty minutes? Great.” Paul hung up, and then turned to head back to John’s room, when he paused and glared at Fred.

“You! Call the porter and tell him to let Jürgen Vollmer upstairs when he gets here. Got it?” The assistant nodded, and then stupidly opened his mouth.

“Hey, man, what are doing anyway?”

“Jumpin’ down the fuckin’ rabbit hole, ya twit.”

“What?”

“I’m savin’ John. S’called kidnappin’. S’illegal.”

”Shit! Where are you taking him, man?” Fred shouted at Paul’s back.

Softly and calmly, Paul answered without turning around.

“Home.”

 

 

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

  
_**4\. Trust each other.** _

 

**1980, New York City**

 

The dark room was stuffy, despite the gentle, whirling sounds of an oscillating fan that stirred the warm air. The curtains were drawn, and white fabric covered the few pieces of furniture left in the room. Only the mattress underneath his broken body was not covered in the pale canvas tarps that were draped over everything. He lay on his back, in a fresh, oversized white T-shirt and loose, plaid boxers. Out of habit, his right hand absentmindedly grabbed his shaft, and languidly stroked the length of his morning erection.

Shit, these flannel boxers felt so soft, so comfortably familiar.

John slowly opened his blood-shot brown eyes, and ran the fingers of his other hand through his damp, curly hair, matted in places to his throbbing skull.

Shit, he had to take a piss.

Fuck.

Where was he?

He didn’t remember much from the night before, just the usual mucking about with Sean, then a long bedtime story, and then finally his delicious escape into his bedroom sanctuary. There was that storm too. He recalled clearly the howling winds and the crashes of thunder that had rattled the windows.

Then nothing.

Shit.

_“Where the fuck am I?”_

A loud noise, and then muffled voices, came from somewhere outside the walls of the unfamiliar room. Wherever this was, he wasn’t alone. John reached for his glasses off the draped nightstand and slowly pried his arse off the large bed. After scratching his balls through the velvety flannel, he started out into the unknown. Though he should have been used to it by now, John’s nerves tingled with the faint, early whispers of poison withdrawal.

When he crossed the short distance from the back room to the hallway that led to a small kitchen, Lennon finally realized where the fuck he was. Shit. After a quick piss in the nearby loo, and a few splashes of water on his face, he walked to the kitchen entrance.

_“What the 'ell is going on?”_

And why the fuck was Jürgen Vollmer, of all bloody people, sitting alone at the round bistro table, in the kitchen of Paul’s Soho flat?

“Jürgen?” John supported his shaky weight against the doorjamb.

“John! Hello. Good morning! How are you feeling?”

“What are ya doing ‘ere, Jürgen?” John coughed, and then snickered, anxiously. “Fuckin’ ‘ell! What am I doin’ here, mate?”

“We brought you here. Last night, during the storm. To help you, John.”

“Help me? Come again?” John’s raspy snarl, though weak, still had bite. “And who the fuck’s we?”

Jürgen looked away sheepishly, playing with his teaspoon. He knew John would be confused and pissed off when he finally woke up from his heroin oblivion. Jürgen had tried to warn Paul, as they carried an unconscious John down to the car last night. They had wrapped his limp, thin body in a blanket, for protection against the bitter, driving rain. Course, the blanket was supposed to also help disguise the fact that he and Paul were kidnapping John fucking Lennon. Paul’s ex-lover! Fucking hell. Jürgen chuckled silently, and shook his head in disbelief.

The whole scene had been absurdly bizarre. Briefly lit by flashes of lightening, he saw Paul affectionately cradle John’s head in his lap in the back seat of the sedan, whispering encouraging words that went unheard, while Vollmer drove carefully through the soaked, otherwise pitch-black city streets. Then they had to carry their precious bundle up five flights of stairs; the fucking lift was broken. They finally had John undressed and settled in the Soho bedroom an hour or so before dawn.

Jürgen sighed and looked up again at an angry and bewildered Lennon, when he noticed Paul standing behind John in the dimly lit hallway.

“I should go now. Please, John, mein lieber Freund. Listen to him, ja? I care about you. I love both of you.”

Jürgen quickly pushed past John, and then Paul, racing to make his way out of their secret fuck fort. To leave them alone, to whatever happened. They didn’t need him anymore. Not now. The door shut with a loud click behind him.

“John.” Paul whispered from behind, drawing out the single, sacred syllable. John flinched inside at the sound of McCartney’s distinct voice, but he didn’t move.

“Why am I ‘ere, Paul?”

The tea kettle started to whistle loudly. Without looking back, John walked to the cooker and turned off the gas burner. When he finally turned around, his eyes squinted like razor blades behind his round lenses.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Paul’s gaze stayed focused, unwavering. Awake for most of the night, he had prepared himself for this… for anything, really.

“You rang me, John. On the phone… ya rang me up here at the flat at one in the morning last night. Made it fuckin’ clear that you’d shot up and that ya were in trouble. So, I... ”

“What the fuck are ya on about, McCartney?” John interrupted coldly.

“Listen, John. After ya rang, I went over to yer flat and brought ya back here. Just to be sure that ya didn’t overdose or something.” Paul shifted his weight to his other leg, nervously rubbing the side of his nose with his finger.

“No one knew that I was in New York, John. No one. How the fuck did you know that I was in town, huh?” Paul’s words sounded more defensive and bitchy than he had meant them to. Shit.

John’s jaw tensed.

“I didn’t know ya were in fuckin’ New York, Paul!”

As John scanned the tiny room for a pack of cigarettes, a faint, cloudy image suddenly washed over Lennon’s fuzzy memory.

“Shit. Stu.” Fuck, John hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“What? What the fuck does dead Stu have to do with any of this, John?”

John’s mind scrambled, desperate for nicotine, and a plausible explanation.

“Nothing.  I was just looking at Stu’s painting. Thinkin’ of the past, s’ppose. That’s all. Sorry to be a fuckin’ bother.” John looked at the flat door that he could see over Paul’s shoulder. “I’m leavin’. Sean must be up and about by now, lookin’ for me.”

“John! Please… ”

“I’m fine, Paul!’ John growled as he tried to push past. “I dunno what the ‘ell ya thought ya were doing, but get outta me way, and go the fuck back to England!”

“No. I’m not leavin’ and yer not leavin’. Ya can take off into the streets in yer underwear. Shit knows ya’ve done that before. But yer not running off wearin’ my favorite fuckin’ pair of boxers!”

Paul blocked the narrow hall passage with his larger body, his arms crossed defiantly.

“S’ides, John, we need to talk.”

After a few moments of their silent stare down, Paul uncrossed his arms and raised his left hand up to John’s face. Gently, he began to untangle John’s knotted auburn locks with his fingers. Paul’s beautiful eyes quickly welled up glassy with tears. John noticed.

“Shit, ya look like bloody hell, John.”

“And you look fuckin’ perfect, as always.” John exhaled, and tried to smirk. “Family life on the farm suits ya, son. Go back to yer sheep, Macca. I’m leavin.”

_“Don’t be afraid of change.”_  The handwritten letters ricocheted back and forth inside Paul’s brain. He’d thought about everything last night, as he stretched out beside John in their Soho bedroom, watching him sleep. Paul recalled everything they’d ever done and said and promised and fucked up, over and over again. This was it. It had to be it. Once last chance.

Without warning, Paul moved forward, capturing John’s gaunt face with both of his trembling hands.

“Ah, but I suit you, remember?”

John froze in disbelief, as his ex-boyfriend moved his moist, full mouth towards him, slowly, steadily. John held his breath, closed his eyes, not daring to move a muscle, afraid to break whatever fucking spell this was. Then, at last, Paul lightly kissed the sensitive corner of John’s mouth, lingered for a while and slowly pulled back. John opened his eyes and drank in the breathtaking sight of his gorgeous ex-lover, wearing only dark jeans and a sleeveless undershirt. Quietly, John exhaled.

Fuck, McCartney still turned his knees to piles of jelly goo. Fuck.

“Paul…”

“Sshh. We can talk later. First go wash up, and I’ll cook ya something to eat.” Paul practically purred, as he brushed the back of his hand down over John’s torso. “Go on then… get cleaned up.” Paul walked past John and into the kitchen; as he grabbed a couple of mugs out of the top cupboard, he turned to find John still standing in place, lightly brushing his lips with his finger.

“I moved the phone into the lounge, luv. Should ya ring up yer yank assistant and let him know that yer alright then?”

“Huh? Yeah, s’ppose I should.”

Following a quick call to reassure a frantic Fred, John brushed the scum off his teeth over the bathroom sink and hopped in the shower. The water was bloody hot. Shit it felt so fucking good. After scrubbing his body and soaping up his hair and balls, he stood under the shower spray until the hot water began to run out. Quickly toweled off, dry and squeaky clean, John dressed back into his own clothes that were waiting for him, all freshened and arranged in a neat pile on the bath stool. As he zipped up the fly on his jeans, he realized how long it had been since he felt this human… this normal. Well, as fucking normal as John Lennon ever felt, but it was good. He felt alive. He felt loved.

It was only a couple of minutes or so of this bliss, before his heart suddenly cracked without warning.

Fuck, he couldn’t go through this again.

He couldn’t have Paul back in his life… in his bed, only to lose him all over again. John wouldn’t survive it, and now there was Sean to consider. Sean needed stability and a sane father, not a pathetic, abandoned queer pining over his fickle lover. Waves of panic began to ripple through John’s slender frame, as his broken heart raced out of control, as his muscles tensed up involuntarily. He had to get the fuck out of there… away from him, before this went any further. Before he drowned in Paul fucking McCartney… again.

John slid his bare feet into the slippers that had been left under the stool, and softly padded his way to the front door. He turned the handle, praying that the door latch wouldn’t make too much noise and give his escape away.

The deadbolt was locked from the inside. The key was gone.

_“Cagey fucker!”_  John snarled silently, and marched into the kitchen. The cooker exhaust fan was on, humming loudly.

“So, I’m yer prisoner then. S’that it? Ya know kidnapping’s illegal, right?” John’s body began to relax.

“Hmm? What’s that, John?”

John noticed the slight bulge in Paul’s back jean pocket, an imperfection in the perfect round contour of Paul’s still perfect round arse. Could that be the bloody key? Or maybe it was just a lighter or something? Fuck.

“I said, whatcha cookin’ there for me, Paul?”

“A healthy brekky. A right vegetarian feast.” Paul hollered over the noise of the fan.

“Bloody ‘ell!” John huffed, as he grabbed a smoke out of the pack on the table.

“S’better than whatever macro-horseshit rubbish ya’ve not been eatin’, luv. Sit down. S’almost done.”

“Got a light?”

Paul opened a kitchen drawer, and tossed a metallic object to John.

“Ta, Macca.” Well, it wasn’t a lighter in his back pocket then. It had to be the fucking key.

After wolfing down a plate of Paul’s veggie feast, John leaned back in his chair, satiated and surprised at how famished he had been, and at how good Paul’s cooking was. Paul was tickled pleased. Cupping his chin with his palm, his left elbow resting on the kitchen table, Paul just smiled at him, delighted at the ferocity of John’s appetite.

“So, how long will it be?”

“How long will what be, Paul?”

“How long before you need another fix?”

John’s smile disappeared, as his thin lips tightened in frustration and shame. “I’ll be long gone by then, luv.”

“John, have ya tried to stop?”

“Dozens of times. Never lasts, though.”

“I could help.”

“I don’t need yer fuckin’ help, Paul.”

“I don’t want to see this shit kill ya, John. I can’t watch ya slip away like Epstein did.”

“Why? Why can’t ya just sod off, and leave me the hell alone?” John’s voice had dropped down to a low murmur.

Paul snatched up John’s dirty plate with a grunt, and brought it over to the sink, his hands braced against the edge of the small counter.

“Yer serious? Why? Cause I fuckin’ love ya, that’s why! I‘m not gonna watch ya die like the rest of them.”

Paul looked down into the sink; tears spilled from his heavy eyes, rolling down off his chin into the porcelain basin. He didn’t even try to stop them, as the tears swelled up into gasping sobs. The exhaustion from no sleep, the brutal loneliness that he’d endured for two years now… and John’s fucking stubborn self-destructiveness. It had all taken its toll on McCartney.

“Ya’ve got two sons now, John. They need you alive and off smack. I fuckin’ need you.”

Paul was tired. And though surrounded by family and assistants and other musicians, Paul felt amputated… utterly cut off from John… from himself. He was tired of smiling and pretending, keeping his chin up and all. He fucking needed John in his life.

And fucking John simply wanted nothing other than to numb his own anguish, even if doing so was nothing more than a steady, slow suicidal spiral.

Eventually, the heroin would win, and John would die. The kisses and grins and the sound of that laugh would fade from Paul’s memory, like old tarnished photographs of mum stuffed away in some forgotten photo album.

In the end, Paul knew that he would be the one left behind, forced to carry alone the weight of their secret, to bear the heavy burden of unfulfilled dreams and all that bloody fucking pain.

Without warning, he felt John’s arms wrap around his waist from behind, a soft kiss caressing the back of his neck.

“Hush, luv. Fuck, c’mon Paul. I’m fine, really. Everything’s just great.”

Paul choked back a sob, willing himself to breathe evenly, trying not to snap back too hard. “S’that right? Yer fine, huh? And I’m just tired, ya know, from the jet lag. That’s why I’m fuckin’ fallin’ apart!”

John gently turned Paul around to face him. Shit, Macca always looked so fuckable after he cried, with those slightly swollen lids and blush lips. All warm and flushed. John fought to resist grabbing hold of that snarky, pouty mouth with his tongue. Christ, his balls ached from the fullness.

“John.” Paul knew the power his voice held over John, especially when he called his name. He could see the passionate hunger building in John’s eyes; he could feel it through his fingers. Shit. This was Paul’s favorite fucking part of snogging… watching John’s lust slowly bubble up to a boil and flow over him. Just from looking at each other… these delicious, intense eye fucks.

All of a sudden, John closed his eyes and turned away, heading for the front door, as he whispered firmly, “I have to go, Paul. Where’s the bloody key?”

“No fuckin' way, John!” Paul growled silently under his breath.

Before John was fully turned around, Paul had grabbed him by the bicep and spun him back. Shit, he was fast. He clenched John’s face in his hands, and went in for the kill. A deep, wet tongue fuck. A couple of minutes into the kiss, and Paul pressed his body against John, wrapping his arms around his narrow hips, pulling him in tight. He ground his hard prick against John’s thigh, slowly rocking back and forth, in rhythm with his tongue. Then he felt John’s hands cup his arse and squeeze his cheeks hard. He felt him trace his fingers up and down his sensitive bum crack. Paul lost control, and moaned loudly into John’s waiting smile.

“Bedroom?” John groaned back.

“Mmm…”

John led Paul back by the hand to their fuck nest, dimly lit and swathed in movers’ tarps. He pushed Paul down on he mattress, unzipped his dark jeans, and pulled the denim fabric off Paul’s long legs. Quickly, he slipped a hand up through the leghole of Paul’s boxers and wrapped his fingers around Paul’s hardness. Paul closed his eyes and arched his back, as John lowered hip lips, running his mouth across Paul’s prick through the soft fabric.

“Ah, baby. You don’t…”

“Sshhh, Paul. Lemme suck ya off, ok?”

“John.”

“Sshhh, beautiful.” John whispered before pulling back the boxer fabric, freeing Paul’s pulsing throbber. He engulfed Paul, pulling him down and back into his throat until his lips enveloped the base of Paul’s cock. It only took a few minutes of sucking and licking before Paul exploded onto John’s tongue with a desperate shout of release. After he swallowed and licked Paul clean, John rested his cheek against Paul’s quivering abdomen, kissing and stroking his soft, dark belly hair.

Paul started to chuckle, and then spontaneously screamed, “Holy Shit!”

From somewhere in the apartment building, a muffled New York asshole neighbor hollered loudly through the walls. “Oh crap, Lisa! The screamer’s back! Shut the fuck up, you noisy faggots!”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Paul whispered, wide-eyed with hysterics, while John suffocated his laughing fit in the squishy, furry firmness of Paul’s stomach.

“John, luv?” Paul slowly recovered.

“Yeah, baby.”

“I’m ready. Completely fuckin’ ready to be with you. I’ve thought about this for a long time, now. I’ll get a divorce and you’ll get a divorce. We’ll get a place together and our kids will grow up together…”

Once his breathing recovered, John exhaled slowly. Christ, how many years had he waited to hear Paul say these words?

And fucking McCartney waited to say them until this moment, until now – when John was a washed-up has been, an addict, a fucking prisoner to a toxin that destroyed his talents, even his ability to make love to Paul properly.

He had to get out of there. They’d gone too far already. John was already falling. Paul was surrendering. Shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Take a shower, Paul. Freshen up, luv.”

“Huh? Really, John?”

“Yeah. The day’s young, darlin'. Stamina, right?”

“Well, all right then.” Paul snorted softly.

Paul stood up, wearing only his white tank shirt, his cock sucked soft and satisfied. Paul suddenly froze, and stared at John, stretched out clothed on the mattress. It hit him that he might not ever see John again, for some fucked up, spooky reason.

“Don’t go anywhere, right?”

“I love ya, Paul. Always will, forever.”

“John. Don’t leave.”

“Have a shower, Paul. Please… ”

“I love you, John. Have for me whole fuckin’ life.” Paul closed his eyes and turned toward to bathroom. Abruptly he stopped, and turned around. John was standing near the bedroom door, left palm on the door handle.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be afraid of change. Remember that one? It was one of yours.”

_“Goodbye, Paul.”_  John’s heart splintered in silence again.

Paul stepped in the shower, and jammed his head under the scalding water. After a few minutes, the shower stall began to spin: he rested he head back against the gloosy wall tiles, trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t stop hyperventilating. He shut off the tap and grabbed a towel, rushing out into the lounge area of the flat, soaking wet.

“John?”

Nothing.

"Are ya here luv?" Paul voiced cracked in despair.

Silence.

Only a note left folded on the sofa table.

Chicken Lennon scratch written on a fucking paper napkin.  


  
_You can’t fix me, Paul. Trust me._

_I balance you.  
Love, John_   



	27. Chapter 27

_**10\. Don’t give up, ever** _   
  
  


**Liverpool, 1960**   
  
  


Clink.  
  
Clink. Clink.  
  
Three small pebbles cracked against the glass windowpane.  
  
“S’bout bloody fuckin’ time.” John growled, slowly putting his worn book down on the nightstand, and lifting his gorgeous twenty-year old arse off his small bed.  
  
Clink. Clink.  
  
“I’m comin’, ya beautiful nit.” John pushed his heavy glasses up the bridge of his nose and opened the window sash forcefully, knowing full well that the wooden frame would creak loudly.  
  
Fuck it.  
  
Mimi was out, a late night at one of her old bint gatherings, and those two gangly boarders were scared shitless of young Lennon. He’d made sure of that the day they’d arrived. It was a rare evening that he had his old bedroom sanctuary all to himself.  
  
“Oi! Who the fuck’s there? It’s past me bedtime!” John barked with a soft chuckle into the bitter, night air. It was early December and winter’s biting chill had already set in over the northern port city.  
  
“C’mon, John. Lemme in! S’fuckin’ cold out ‘ere.” Frustrated, Paul tried to holler and whisper at the same time. Instead, he half whistled the frozen words that blew out through his lips as puffs of smoky steam.  
  
“Sorry. Don’t recognize ya. What’s yer name again?”  
  
“I couldn’t get ‘ere any earlier, John. Been dealin’ with me angry da for the past couple of days. Ya know, that hundred quid a week and all?” Paul blew into his cupped, bare hands, as he shifted in his boots to try and keep his icy toes warm.  
  
“I’ve been back for nearly a week, ya wanker!”  
  
“I know that, for shit’s sake! I just couldn’t get out this way, s’all!” Paul shouted back in a hushed, bitchy tone, looking up at the open, second story window.  
  
“Rubbish, yer a fuckin’ liar.”  
  
“John. Lemme the fuck in, will ya? Don’t be a arse, or I’ll…”  
  
“What? Or ya’ll fuckin what, Macca?”  
  
“I’ll start yellin’ that John Lennon is a prick-lickin’ poof! I’ll start singing it, like a bloody show tune!” Paul snarled, clearing his throat for emphasis.  
  
“For fuck’s sake.” John slammed down the sash with dramatic violence, and then turned away from the shut window, grinning ear to ear. Within seconds, John bounded down the staircase, barefoot in his jeans and white undershirt, two steps at a time, to unlock the front door at Mendips.  
  
Shit, he missed him.  
  
“So what’s yer fuckin’ excuse again for not comin’ ‘round sooner?”  
  
“Cheesed off dad, needy bird, the usual.”  
  
“Called on Dot before me then?”  
  
“Yeah.” Paul pushed his way past an amused, smirking Lennon, and scampered up the steps towards John’s bedroom. “And you’ve shagged Cyn a couple of times as well, no doubt.”  
  
John watched the lad’s skin-tight drainpiped round arse dash up the steps, and then out of view.  
  
Shit.  
  
  
“So old man Mac’s pissed off, is he?” John asked sincerely, closing his bedroom door quietly behind him.  
  
Paul groaned in exasperation, kicked off his boots, tossed his wool coat onto the chair, and flopped his eighteen-year old body onto John’s mattress.  
  
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, John. He’s furious with me. S’tellin’ me to stop muckin’ about and get a proper job. I think he’s gonna fuckin’ chuck me outta the house.” Paul threw his forearm over his eyes.  
  
“Budge up.” John plopped down on his bed next to Paul, squishing the younger, smaller boy against the wall.  
  
“Mimi’s bloody pissed off too. Says I’m wastin’ me life away and all.”  
  
“Great fuckin’ home comin’, eh?”  
  
“Yeah, great. Hamburg was bloody good though, wasn’t it?”  
  
“It was fuckin’ amazin’, John. We got better, don’t ya think? Much better! More professional.”  
  
John turned to face the younger, dark haired boy, one eyebrow cocked above the frame of his specs.  
  
“If ya call getting’ in smash ups with pissed sailors and vomitin’ all over the stage professional.” John snarked.  
  
“Ha! Wasn’t that bad, luv.”  
  
John reached over and grabbed his pack of smokes from underneath his discarded paperback on the nightstand. He lit up two cigs at once, handing one to Paul.  
  
“Shit, the Kino was bloody awful, wasn’t it? What a shithole!”  
  
“But did ya have to light a fire to the shithole, Macca?”  
  
“’Ey! I’m a laddish, common hooligan. Didn’t Mimi warn ya ‘bout me, John?” Paul leaned over and kissed John on the lips gently, knocking his boyfriend’s glasses askew.  
  
He lingered for just a moment on John’s mouth before Paul lay back down, and sighed wistfully. “And those Hamburg skirts. Cor, all those fuckin’ easy birds.”  
  
“And the clap.”  
  
“Yeah, that too.” Paul snorted softly. “Yer clean now as well, right?”  
  
“Fuckin’ hope so, or I’m gonna ‘ave one pissed off Miss Powell.”  
  
They both stretched out silently on their backs, smoking side by side, staring up at John’s wanking pictures of a nearly nude Bardot and a leather-clad Presley that were stuck to the ceiling. They didn’t have to say a word; the quiet was comfortable, the rhythmic sounds of their breaths were hypnotizing. After several minutes, Paul broke their reverie.  
  
“Oi, John! I just realized something.” Paul whispered out of habit, giggling. Never know when the old bitch could be lurking about upstairs at Mendips.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Ya wank with yer glasses on in ‘ere, don’t ya? I mean, ya can’t see Bridget or Elvis up there on the ceiling without yer specs, right?”  
  
“Ya’ve sussed me out, Paul. Now I’ve got no more bloody secrets, do I?” John chuckled.  
  
“Ha!” Paul took a long drag and blew out perfect smoke rings above their heads.  
  
“John, don’t forget that Pete’s got a gig lined up at the Casbah in a week or so. Doesn’t pay much and the amp gear’s still in Hamburg, for Christ’s sake, but we could manage something, right?”  
  
“Bloody ‘ell, Paul. The band shit is over, son. We got thrown outta fuckin’ Germany on our sorry arses by the bleedin’ krauts.”  
  
“What! Over?” Eyes wide open in disbelief, Paul’s whisper changed to impish yelp.  
  
“Ya ‘eard me. Finished. Yer dad’s forcin’ ya to earn regular wages. And I gotta figure out something else too. Can’t keep filchin’ bob from Mimi’s savings tin. Fuck.”  
  
Paul’s jaw clenched with familiar annoyance.  _“It’s another fuckin’ Lennon test, isn’t it?”_  
  
“So, yer gonna get an actual job, John?” Paul asked sarcastically.  
  
“Didn’t say that, did I?”  
  
“Well, what then? Yer gonna rent out yer gorgeous bum to old queer Scots in Inverness?” Paul winked.  
  
“Nah. Scot codgers are right stingy. They couldn’t afford me arse anyroad. I’m thinkin’ larceny, a life of crime.”  
  
“Oh, that’s a brilliant plan, John. Fuckin’ ‘ell!”  
  
John cackled like a pissed hyena, before stubbing out his smoke and finally catching his breath.  
  
“So, what do ya propose, Macca?”  
  
“John, luv. S’only a bit of a rough patch, that s’all. Geo was underage, I lit fire to a rubber. S’nothin’ really.”  
  
John needed to hear Paul’s reassuring excuses, his confidence, every fucking word of it. Coming home alone, banged up guitar slung over his shoulder, with less than five quid in his pocket was fucking humiliating. Mimi picked John up at the train station, tapping her foot in annoyance, arms crossed, her stern face twisted in self-righteous indignation. Fucking bloody humiliating.  
  
“Cor, I should just sack ya firebugs and nappie-clad ‘arrison and be done with the lot of ya.”  
  
“Whah? And ya’d keep that talentless prat, Sutcliffe?”  
  
“Ya fuckin’ left me there, Paul. In Hamburg… by meself! I had to take three trains and a ferry to get back to Liverpool, alone and skint… for fuck’s sake.”  
  
“I got bloody arrested, John! And I spent a night in a fuckin’ German prison cell, ya selfish bastard!”  
  
“Always thinkin’ of yerself, aren’t ya?” John smirked. “We got fuckin’ deported by the bloody Nazis, Paul. Pitiful, mate. Bloody pathetic.”  
  
Paul sat halfway up, leaning on his left elbow. He looked down into John’s framed eyes.  
  
“We can’t give up. Not now, John. We’re good. We’ll make it. Professional musicians now, right?”  
  
John grunted in disgust.  
  
“It’ll be blindin’ good. Ya’ll see. We’ll write songs, play gigs and pull birds and never work a daft proper job. We’ll get the fuck outta Liverpool. And we’ll be together, partners and all. We can’t give up, luv. Not yet, anyroad.”  
  
Paul spewed out the hasty string of encouraging words, exhausted and irritated. The whole Hamburg job had ended in disaster and disgrace. John was right. Paul wiped his moist mouth with the back of his still cold hand.  
  
“I dunno, luv.”  
  
“Shit, John. I finally got the 'ell away from me dad and outta the house, and I’m ‘ere. Can ya just shut the fuck up, and kiss me?”  
  
John smiled slowly.  
  
“Course, luv.” After taking off his heavy frames and carefully placing them on the bedside table, John grabbed Paul by his thick hair and pulled his lips down to John’s parted mouth, hungry for a deep tongue fuck.  
  
Shit, John had been daydreaming about the feel, the flavor of Paul’s prick on his tongue for days now. Wanking off to it. His mouth watered at the thought of engulfing Paul’s silky hardness. Suddenly, John lifted Paul off by his hair, and pulled his probing tongue out of Paul’s wet, moaning mouth.  
  
“Stand up, Paul.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Up, and strip for me. Ya’ve seen those titty shows on the Reeperbahn. Show ‘em how it’s done, luv.”  
  
Paul shook his head and snickered, causing his quiff of greased locks to dangle loosely over his brow. Shit, John’s insane kinkiness drove the ever-randy lad mad with lust. Paul rolled over John and jumped up with a laugh. “I need music, maestro!”  
  
 _“Always a fuckin’ performer.”_ John snorted to himself.  
  
John started to hum a vaudeville ditty, as Paul swayed his narrow hips back and forth, like the topless birds he’d seen perform in the German strip clubs. Slowly, he lifted his black pullover up and over his head, tossing it at John’s leering smile. Impatient as always, John sped up the beat of his tune as he began to stroke himself through his jeans.  
  
“Ha, that’s it. Ya beautiful, stripper boy. Take them trousers off, eh.”  
  
Paul unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his drainpipes and pushed the skin-tight trousers down to his knees with effort. The drainies were fucking tight, even on his long, slim legs; his half-stiff prick bulged through the fabric of his white Y-fronts. Paul pushed his left hand down under his own waistband and started to toss himself off as he gyrated seductively.  
  
Shit, John missed him.  
  
“C’mere, luv.” John ordered, as the older lad moved over and sat up on the edge of the mattress, his denim-clad thighs spread apart as an invitation. Paul winked and turned around, wiggled his perfect bum at John, and then shimmied over, in between John’s open legs. He bent down and kissed John’s wavy hair. It was soft and clean smelling… no hair cream. John must have washed up earlier in the bath.  
  
“Whatcha want, Johnny?” Paul cooed, batting his long, dark lashes under the fringe of his forelock, caressing his own ball sack through the cloth of his underpants with the back of his hand. Between the striptease dance and the touch of his own teasing fingers, Paul was rock hard. A spot of precum stained the white cotton fabric.  
  
“Mmm. Let’s get these off ya.” As he growled the command, John pulled down the front of Paul’s pants, letting the boy’s aching throbber out to play. Paul’s breath hitched and his head fell forward at the tingling sensations of the cool air and John’s hot hands. Fuck. Then John peeled the white cotton down over the firm curve of Paul’s arse, eliciting another moan of approval from Paul’s throat. As Lennon leaned back on the bed, propped up by his outstretched arms, he drank in the sight of his nearly naked boyfriend, his hairy, lean perfection lit only by the small lamp on John’s desk.  
  
Fuck.  
  
John sat back up.  
  
“Come closer, Paul.” The way John snarled his name made Paul gasp with need. Shit. With his right hand, John lifted Paul’s hard prick up to his lips, and sucked softly on his head, gently scraping his teeth along that low, sensitive spot at the bottom of Paul’s dripping slit. The boy’s knees nearly gave out as John nibbled him with his mouth. Feeling Paul’s legs weaken and sway, John grabbed Paul’s hipbones tightly, holding him steady for the teasing.  
  
Finally John enveloped the sweet length of the lad, his nose nuzzled in Paul’s soft, black curls. Paul felt the warm tickle of John’s breaths, the skilled rhythm of John’s tongue and cheek muscles sucking and stroking, as his own breathing became quick and shallow. Fuck, he was gonna lose it. Paul swallowed hard, trying desperately to hold back, to savor every second of this long overdue blowjob.  
  
John suddenly pulled off, reached up and pulled Paul’s face down by his hair.  
  
“Paul.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Open yer mouth, luv. Suck on me fingers.”  
  
“Mmm…”  
  
Once they were soaked and readied with Paul’s spit, he let go of his boyfriend’s hair, and slowly John pushed his two slippery fingers into Paul’s burning tightness.  
  
“Oh shit. Oh god, John…”  
  
“Hush, luv. Lemme finger fuck ya for a bit. Relax, baby.”  
  
He thought about pulling Paul’s drainies off him completely, but decided against it when John realized that the tight, black fabric bound Paul’s legs together like a rope. Perfect. Rubbing his fingers back and forth deep inside his boyfriend, John resumed his sucking, taking Paul even deeper down his throat. Fuck. Paul lasted less than a minute, before exploding warm cum into John’s mouth with a suffocated cry. Second later, the younger musician collapsed face forward into John’s arms, babbling incoherently.  
  
John swallowed greedily, kissed Paul’s damp hair and his swollen lips and rolled his spent, trembling boyfriend over and face down on the bed, bent over the mattress edge, his perfect bum bare, and prepped and waiting.  
  
“Shit, I gotta… gotta get these trousers off, John.” Paul mumbled into the bed covers. “I can’t move me legs.”  
  
“I know. S’perfect. Leave ‘em on.” John’s raspy, sinful snarl sent shivers through Paul’s aching groin.  
  
John stood up and unzipped his jeans, pulling out his pulsing cock with one seamless maneuver. “Don’t fuckin’ scream, alright?” Paul nodded silently. John retrieved the lube from his nightstand, slathered himself up and impaled Paul slowly from behind. After a few still moments of John buried in him up to the hilt, Paul bucked his hips and started John thrusting in a fast rhythm. They rode the fuck dance together, John pounding down hard and deep, Paul arching his arse up with force to meet him.  
  
“Harder.” Paul begged too loudly between breaths. His spent prick was getting stiff again. “Fuck, harder… please, John!”  
  
John complied with a wicked sneer, thrusting into Paul ferociously. Paul tried to dampen his slutty moans into the blankets.  
  
“Yer such a whore. A beautiful fuckin’ whore, Macca.” John gasped softly. John’s head fell back in delicious readiness, as his balls tightened with a building desire to burst and empty buckets of batter into Paul’s smooth, tight bum.  
  
Knock. Knock.  
  
They froze for a split second, eyes open, jaws dropped.  
  
“John, what in heaven is going on in there?”  
  
Fuck. Mimi.  
  
She’s back.  
  
Fuck!  
  
“Nothin’!” John gritted his teeth, unwilling to give up his orgasm.  
  
He was so bloody close; fuck, it was just within reach. He pushed Paul’s face back down onto the mattress covers with one hand firmly tangled in the thick locks of Paul’s hair. His other hand scooped under Paul’s hips, lifting that firm, round bum up in the air. With a determined smirk, he reburied his cock with one thrust and resumed fucking Paul’s squirming, snug arse.  
  
“What’s that noise?”  
  
“An Elvis record.” John growled breathless, in between his deep plunges.  
  
“Turn the volume down.” She nagged with a shrill, and finally walked back downstairs.  
  
“Did ya hear that Paul, luv? Turn down the fuckin’ volume.”  
  
The back of his head nodded silently under John’s firm grasp, as Paul snorted and moaned into the bed covers.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
  
 **London, 1980**  
  
  
It was the perfect pub.  
  
Clean, handsomely decorated, just dark enough and well off the beaten track. No tourists, no fans, no birds. Just a few local regular blokes that he had gotten to know by name. A bit of chit chat here and there about wives and kids and the weather, but nothing excessive or intrusive. The place was run by a cheerful proprieter who never made a fuss or called the press. Excellent pints and tasty pub fare.  
  
Yes, it was the perfect discrete pub in London for Paul McCartney. Shit, he’d been coming here for years whenever he was in town. Never brought anyone else along, ever. Never even told Linda about it; she never asked where he spent some of his hours away from the family when they were at Cavendish. No one knew about the place. This isolation was his alone.  
  
The early September day was refreshingly crisp and sunny; Paul didn’t need the navy blue wool jacket, but it matched his trousers and looked smart on him. He always dressed sharp for his private pub escapes. It felt posh and proper. Different. Paul sighed as he sat at his usual wooden table in his usual tufted armchair in a back corner near the old stone fireplace. It was a quiet and personal oasis. The thirty-eight year old lit a smoke and took a thirsty gulp of his pint, before pulling out his notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.  
  
Fuck, if he could only add a few more words to these lyrics he’d been struggling with for too long now. Without thinking, Paul doodled John’s name. Twice.  
  
Tomorrow was their anniversary. Paul hadn’t seen or heard from John since that kidnapping fiasco back in April. He’d tried to ring him up in New York, but his calls were never put through. Twice some strange, foreign male voice that Paul didn’t recognize quickly yelled, “He’s not here,” before hanging up. Shit, Paul didn’t know how or where the fuck John was. Paul threw back the rest of his pint, and tried to push the constant pain and hopelessness away. Paul was afraid.  
  
 _“He’s OK. John’s fine. He’s just in hiding, or some other barmy Lennon horseshit.”_  Paul tried to comfort himself with a bit of forced Macca rationalization.  
  
“Excuse the interruption, sir. This pint has been sent to you by that gentleman over there.” The pub owner pointed to an odd-looking bloke seated three tables away in the other corner by the opposite side of the fireplace. He looked old, right fucking old, with long grey hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and a full grey beard that enveloped his face. The geezer’s thick, silver hair was shiny and finely combed; his eyes were obscured behind thick, tinted lenses.  
  
Quite a dandy old fella, Paul thought.  
  
But most peculiar were his clothes. The strange, pint-purchasing patron was donning full Scottish kilt attire with all the dangling trappings. All that were missing were the fucking bagpipes. Paul supposed that they were probably in the boot of the bloke’s car. McCartney wondered why he hadn’t noticed the man earlier.  
  
 _“Nice gesture between musicians and all.”_  Paul figured, thanking the pub owner, and lifting his pint glass in gratitude to the old Scot piper, who simply nodded and raised his glass back.  
  
 _“I wonder if he’s wearin’ anything under that kilt.”_ Paul laughed quietly.  
  
After a small sip of the fresh pint, Paul returned his attention to his notebook. Soon he was lost in thought, humming some unfamiliar melody to himself.  
  
Ping. Ping.  
  
Two pieces of something hit Paul on the side of the head. He looked up and then down at the floor. What the fuck? It looked like bits of pub snacks, for shit’s sake. Paul eyes scanned the dim space. Nothing unusual. The same cast of characters sitting in the same seats, drinking their pints in peace.  
  
Ping. Ping. Ping.  
  
Fuck! What the hell was going on? Paul rubbed his head, and looked around. Nothing. He hated getting hit on the side of the head unexpectedly with random missiles. Reminded him of the early touring, and those awful press interviews. Microphones shoved in his young face, John poking him like a naughty schoolboy from behind…  
  
Paul smirked fondly at the memory.  
  
With a sigh, he turned his attention back to his sudsy pint pressie, spying out of the corners of his eyes, trying to keep watch over the other patrons in the pub.  
  
Ping. Ping.  
  
Paul didn’t flinch this time. He froze, his jaw clenched in frustration. “All right, that’s it!” Then, without warning, his crinkled face suddenly melted into a smile. Paul snorted silently, and glanced over at the old Scot. Quickly, McCartney shoved the small notebook back in his pocket, grabbed his pint glass, and walked the short distance to the plaid-wrapped codger’s table.  
  
“May I join you, sir?”  
  
The Scot just nodded. Paul pulled out the chair opposite the old man and sat down in the dark pub corner. He stared straight into the man’s squinting eyes, but could see little clearly through the tinted, square glasses.  
  
“Ta for the pint, mate. I quite fancy the melancholy song of the pipes. Can I ask you a question that’s been botherin’ me for years now, though?” Paul asked innocently, throwing on gobs of irresistible Macca charm.  
  
The Scot just nodded politely. Paul took a long sip of foam off his beer, bits of the froth sticking to his top lip.  
  
“Do you blokes wear anything under those kilts, or do ya just let ya willie waggle in the breeze?”  
  
The old Scot froze in mid-sip.  
  
He didn’t say a word.  
  
Nothing.  
  
And then there it was. What Paul was waiting for…  
  
Shit, he could cover up every inch of his body, change his shape, disguise his hair, his face, his eyes… even mimic an accent or gender. But he couldn’t hide that.  
  
Not ever.  
  
John’s electric, leonine smile had a way of lighting up a room, even an old stuffy dark pub on a nowhere street in nowhere London.  
  
“Why don’t ya stick yer pretty hand up there and find out fer yerself, laddy.” John replied. His Scottish impersonation was never one of Lennon’s best.  
  
Leaning forward in his chair, crossing his arms on the table, Paul chuckled and shook his head. “Well, you’ve gone all out this time, Johnny. I’ll give ya that, ya crazy fucker.”  
  
“Don’t I always go all out for ya, Paul, for better or worse?” John growled back in his normal, low silky voice.  
  
“Shit, what are ya doing here, John? You’re in London, for Christ’s sake! How the hell did ya know I was at this pub?”  
  
“A ghost told me.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Ha! S’nothing, luv. I’m here to see you, Macca. I warned ya I’d show up at yer doorstep uninvited.”  
  
“Fuck, John! I’ve been trying to get hold of ya all summer. Where’ve ya been?”  
  
John pulled down the heavy tinted glasses down his nose, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Shit, he looked good… he’d put on a healthy amount of bulk. Even with the massive, fake beard, Paul could see that John’s fuller face was freckled and tan from the sun.  
  
“On the beach… with Sean. Sailing and swimming. And writing.”  
  
“Writing! Where?”  
  
“Bermuda. Ah, what a bloody fantastic summer holiday me and Sean had, Macca!”  
  
“Yeah. Sounds fantastic, John.” Paul exhaled deeply, releasing tons of tense ache with a blissful sigh. John was alive. And here in London. Fuck.  
  
“Oi, Paul! Ya’ll never believe what I did!” John’s face shone like a diamond beneath the furry disguise.  
  
“What?” Paul’s mind raced through the dozens of things he ever wished John would do, like old index cards filed away somewhere.  
  
“I sailed a boat through a tropical ‘urricane, captain of the ship and all. A bloody wicked storm, luv… the waves were fuckin’ huge. We nearly sank. You would’ve shit in yer trousers, Macca! It was brilliant!”  
  
“Cor, really John?” Paul was tickled that John could still bounce and beam like an excited little boy. It had been ages since Paul had seen John glow like this.  
  
“And I’m clean now, Paul.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah. Did that as well. Was fuckin’ terrible, but I did it.”  
  
“Fuck, John. I dunno what to say…”  
  
“Tell me yer still prepared to jump down the fuckin’ rabbit hole with me. Are ya still ready, luv?” John’s narrow, gorgeous eyes pleaded with tinges of hope.  
  
Paul took another gulp of his pint, and swallowed hard.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

_**4\. Trust each other** _  
  
  
**Liverpool, 9 September, 1958**  
  


Although the heavy rain had stopped, the early autumn mist continued to drizzle down on the Woolton golf course. Under a broad, protective canopy of yellowing leaves, John gently cupped Paul’s face with both hands and lightly brushed his lips against the sensitive corner of Paul’s mouth.   
  
Paul’s whole body trembled from the intoxicating mixture of lust and panic.   
  
“It’s alright, Paul. Just trust me, luv.” John reassured.  
  
Paul froze, unable to move a muscle, as John began to suck softly on his lower lip, slipping his hands underneath Paul’s old wool coat. The electricity of John’s touch as he traced his fingers in patterns up and down Paul’s torso was blinding. Shit, it was paralyzing.   
  
Paul closed his eyes. It felt so fucking good.  
  
“John. We can’t do this, John.” Paul finally protested weakly.  
  
John lightly brushed one of Paul’s nipples through his thin jumper with the back of his hand, as he swept his lips across Paul’s quivering mouth.  
  
“Ssshh. Don’t be afraid. No one can see us.”  
  
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, John.” Paul regained control of his body, and pushed the larger, older boy away from him with a gentle but firm shove. Paul fought to catch his breath, his body rigid with uncertainty. Fuck. His sixteen-year old prick was rock hard and pulsing against the soft pouch of his Y-fronts.  
  
John stumbled but caught his balance easily. He crossed his arms and just stood back, looking Paul over, noticing the bulge in lad’s trousers. John had dealt with his share of beautiful things resisting his advances at first. Never stopped him before from trying again. Even at this young age, he was a tenacious wolf when it came to seduction.   
  
But, as beautiful as he was, Paul wasn’t a bird. John’s grab bag of maneuvres that had wooed so many skirts for a quick knee trembler behind some pub probably wouldn’t work the same with another bloke. Not with Paul, anyroad.  
  
John had to think. Quickly.  
  
Shit, he was fucking aroused, more than he’d been in a long while. As he licked his lips, John could still taste the deliciously illicit, unfamiliar flavor of another boy.  
  
He decided on a strategy, and walked slowly back towards Paul for another go round.   
  
“Looks to me like ya enjoyed that.” John stared at Paul’s swollen package, as he shamelessly readjusted his own cock in his jeans. Then John backed up a bit, look him straight in the eyes, and slid into to  _that_  voice, low and husky.   
  
“I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to scare ya.”   
  
John purposefully turned and walked away, towards Mendips.  
  
“Piss off, John. Ya didn’t fuckin’ scare me!” Paul blurted out, still weak in his legs from his aching balls and the dizzying high from John’s caresses.   
  
John kept walking through the grey drizzle, away from him.   
  
Paul ran up from behind, pissed off and frustrated.   
  
“Why did ya do that, John? Why did ya kiss me like that?”  
  
John stopped, and turned around. He cupped Paul’s full cheek in his hand, moving his face close. Feeling the warmth of John’s breath, Paul didn’t back away, to John’s delight.  
  
“I won’t do it again, alright?” John took his hand away.  
  
“John. What the fuck’s going on ‘ere?”  
  
“I wanted to kiss you, Paul. I’m sorry, but… you’re very sexy. Ya look like Elvis. Ya know I fancy him.”  
  
"I didn't know ya fancied him like that."  
  
"Well, I do."  
  
Paul held his breath, daring to stare back into John’s penetrating gaze. Then the younger boy chuckled softly.  
  
“Ya think I look like Elvis, then?” Paul turned around slowly, and started walking away, the opposite direction of John’s house, mumbling over his shoulder. “Yer good looking as well, ya know. Not like Elvis, mind ya—but in yer own way, John.”   
  
Paul’s eyes were heavy, his full lips parted as he tried to calm his rapid breathing. It was wrong. He knew it was fucking wrong, and he was scared as shit. But it didn't matter. Paul wanted this. He wanted to taste John again.   
  
Shit. John hadn’t expected this from the beautiful, little twit. Now what the fuck was he supposed to do? Paul should have been scared, or at least submissive. But instead, their subtle battle for dominance when they played music together had morphed to a lustful, flirtatious dance on a deserted golf course.   
  
“Give us a proper kiss, then.” John shouted through the foggy mist at Paul’s back.  
  
Paul suddenly stopped, and turned to face John.  
  
“And what do I get out of it, Captain?”  
  
Lennon smirked. Fucking McCartney was so damn cheeky. And shit, John loved to play games.   
  
“Yer serious, then? Alright.” John recrossed his arms and shifted his weight to his other leg. “How ‘bout one of the records I nicked? Whichever one ya want.”   
  
“One?” Paul feigned astonishment, pointing to his pouty lips, moist from the mist. “For this mouth? One bloody record?”   
  
John bent over in hysterics, unable to control his delight with Paul’s playfulness, with his fucking huge balls.   
  
Watching John’s quiff of curls shake from the spasms of laughter, Paul marched up to the older boy quickly and with purpose.  
  
 _“Make yer move!”_  Paul spurred himself on.  _“Now, for shit’s sake!”_    
  
Paul reached down, grabbing a fistful of John’s soft auburn hair and leaned in for a kiss, pulling John up with him as his mouth grabbed hold. Lightly Paul ran his tongue across John’s lips, asking for entrance with a groan. John moaned back and opened his mouth. They stood in the drizzle on the golf course, hands now shoved in their coat pockets, not touching each other except for their mouths, kissing and exploring. Neither said a word as their warm, wet tongues tangled; only soft chuckles from nerves broke the constant hum of melodic moaning.  
  
All those days they had spent up until now, staring into each other’s eyes and playing guitars on small beds. And now this. Queer snogging on a bloody golf course! Fuck.  
  
 _“He pulled me. The cagey fucker seduced me!”_   Lennon couldn’t believe the confidence and audacity of this Council House scruff.  His beautiful partner in crime.   
  
As his mouth softened even more under Paul’s roaming tongue, John floated away in bliss. He was completely and utterly alive for the first time since Julia had died.  
  
Finally John pulled back, out of breath.  
  
“Yer not gonna say a word about this to anyone, right?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why the fuck should I trust ya, Macca?”  
  
“Cause ya have to, don’t ya? You don't have another choice, son.”   
  
Paul winked, and starting walking towards Mendips.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
 **London, 9 September, 1980**  
  


Bright beams of midday sun danced through the air, lighting the comfy second-floor flat that was owned by a session guitarist that John had once worked with years ago. The bloke was out of London on holiday, and more than happy to accommodate Lennon’s request to temporarily crash at his place; besides, John only needed the flat for a week or so. Phil’s unassuming home was more discrete, John realized, than a posh hotel room. Cleaned and straightened by a housekeeping service before John arrived, the wood floor was now cluttered with a trail of red tartan and navy wool and white cotton and false gray hair.   
  
They stood together in a wet embrace under the hot spray of the shower, slowly washing each other’s bodies, peppering light kisses over each other’s soaked faces. As Paul ran the soapy wash cloth over the back of John’s shoulders, down the hollow of his spine and over the curve of his bum, he sucked lightly on John’s neck, eliciting grateful moans from the back of his throat.  
  
They’d come here directly from Paul’s pub hideout. Before they’d left the pub, Paul had rung up Linda with some daft story explaining why he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow. He wasn’t even sure what the fuck he’d said on the phone, his mind had been spinning too fast with pure joy and raw desire. He hated lying to her, but he couldn’t lose John again.   
  
He couldn’t fucking lose him again.  
  
Consequences be damned, McCartney had surrendered to his irrational heart and jumped face first into the rabbit hole. There’d be screaming and yelling and crying later; Paul forced the painful image of her tear-streaked face out of his mind. For right now, under the pulsing, gentle rhythm of the hot shower in the borrowed flat, Paul just needed John. At this moment, he needed only John.   
  
“Christ, it feels so good just to hold ya.”   
  
“Happy anniversary, Paul.” John whispered.   
  
In clouds of steam, Paul kissed him on the lips, sucking softly on his bottom lip. He may have been distracted much of the time, but Lennon never forgot anniversaries or birthdays. He was soft like that.  
  
“Happy anniversary, luv.”  
  
John grabbed the shampoo bottle, and started to wash Paul’s hair, his fingers kneading those smooth, short locks with sudsy soap. Drifting off under the deep massage of John’s intoxicating hands, Paul moaned and closed his eyes; his breathing slowed and his moist lips parted in pleasure. Slowly, John rubbed his thumbs in circles over Paul’s temples as he kissed his eyelids, and then Paul’s nose. With another soft moan, Paul leaned his hips into John’s wet body.  
  
“Ready for more then, are ya?” John asked, with a smirk, feeling Paul’s wet crotch press up against his thigh.   
  
Paul kept his eyes closed; water droplets dripped off his lashes.   
  
“Hell, no.” Paul snorted. “Christ, if I tried to fuck right now, my aching, sorry prick would just shrivel up and fall off.”  
  
“Lovely, Paul.” John winced with a snicker.   
  
When they arrived at the flat early yesterday evening, they stripped each other bare as they snogged their way to the back bedroom, and made love without saying a word. For most of the night, their sweaty bodies were twisted and folded into nearly every possible cock sucking and bum loving position, until they passed out, tangled in each other’s spent limbs.   
  
When they finally woke up together, the sun had just started shining through the bedroom curtains. Groggy and disoriented, Paul felt John’s nose nuzzling against the back of his head, burrowing in his hair.  
  
“Paul, please fuck me, baby.” John’s low, ragged voice tickled Paul’s ear.  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
Paul smiled lazily, still half asleep, as he grabbed the small bottle and drizzled a generous stream of oily lotion over his morning throbber. After ten minutes of hard, delicious pounding and near simultaneous, exquisite orgasms, they both giggled stupidly, collapsing as they fought to catch their breath.  
  
“Morning, Paul.”   
  
“Morning, Johnny.”   
  
“Ta for the fuck, luv.”  
  
“S’my pleasure darling.”  
  
Shit. With the number of times they’d made love, it was a bloody miracle that the two reunited lovers could even stand up under the shower spray.   
  
Like a doting parent washing a small child, John rinsed the shampoo out of Paul’s hair, carefully making sure to block the suds from stinging his lover’s beautiful eyes. They dried each other off playfully, with a snap or two of a twisted towel to the bum. Having slipped his silk boxers back on, Paul strolled back out to the bedroom, running his fingers through his short, wet locks. He hopped up on the bed, back resting against the padded headboard, and lit a smoke. Suddenly, his eyes spied an old acoustic guitar propped up in the corner. He jumped off the mattress and picked up the worn out piece of equipment, turning it over for inspection. Somewhat satisfied, Paul sat back down on the bed, flipping the guitar upside down, and began to strum after a quick tuning.  
  
“Where’d ya find the guitar?” John mumbled, as he wandered out of the loo, stark naked. He toweled off his shoulder-length, curly hair with a couple of vigorous rubs.  
  
“Over in the corner. Must be Phil’s. Pretty bashed up, poor old girl.”  
  
Settling down on the foot of the bed, John sat with his legs criss-crossed. He lit up a smoke and watched Paul’s fingers pluck a catchy, pleasant-sounding tune. He noticed how Paul, after all these years, still stuck his tongue out in concentration when working on a song. It was bloody sexy as hell.  
  
“S’not bad. Something new yer working on?”  
  
“Yeah. Tune’s good enough, s’ppose, but the lyrics are driving me fuckin’ mad. Wanna hear it then?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s not long.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Don’t be a prick, John.”   
  
John slowly smiled, as he leaned over to stub out his spent cigarette.   
  
Paul cleared his throat and started to sing the few words he had, humming the unfinished bits here and there. Less than a minute into the song, John interrupted him.  
  
“Christ, that needs work. Where’s the lyric sheet?”  
  
“In my notebook in my jacket, the one ya stripped off me and dropped on the floor on the way in.” Paul winked with a smile.   
  
Grabbing his glasses, John quickly left and returned with the small notebook, thumbing through the pages.  
  
“There’s quite a few love scrawls of me name in here, Paul.” John smirked, raising an eyebrow and scratching his balls.   
  
A slight blush flushed across Paul’s cheeks, as he laughed uncomfortably.  
  
“Fuckin’ hand it over, John.” Paul sat up on his knees and snatched the writing book out of John’s hand, flipping to the page of words he’d been struggling with for months. “Here. It’s this one.”  
  
“And there I am again.” John chuckled at seeing his name doodled twice on the page, as he plopped his naked bum back down on the bed.  
  
They worked together on Paul’s incomplete infant of a song for a while, going back and forth with suggestions for this or that, relaxed and at ease, until John’s fingers got fidgety and preoccupied. Something was on his mind.  
  
“What is it, John?”  
  
“Hmm?”   
  
Still distracted and biting his lip, John turned his gaze and looked Paul straight in the eyes.   
  
“Well, Johnny, ya’ve obviously lost interest in this, so…”  
  
“Gimme the guitar, will ya? I want play a song of mine for ya. I wrote it when I was on holiday.” Paul’s breath hitched, as he carefully handed over the worn instrument.   
  
“S’meant to be played on the piano, but should work. Well, have a listen. I wrote it for you.” Paul could hear the anxiety in John’s voice; as always, the scratchy nervousness faded the minute he began to sing.   
  
The sweet sounds of the chords, and John’s silky words melted into Paul’s ears, spreading like waves of honey throughout his body.   
  
 _“… From this moment on I know,  
exactly where my life will go.  
Seems that all I really was doing  
was waitin' for love.  
  
Don't need to be afraid,  
No need to be afraid._  
  
To hear John sing something new again, to hear his satin voice resonate throughout the room after so many years, sent shivers through Paul’s gut.   
  
The melody and the words were so real, so John.   
  
 _“Thought I'd been in love before,  
but in my heart I wanted more.  
Seems like all I really was doing  
was waitin' for you.  
  
Don't need to be alone,  
No need to be alone.  
  
It's real love, yeah it's real,  
It's real love, it's real…”_  
  
John’s voice trailed off at the end of the chorus, his fingers stopped, and his eyes focused intently on Paul’s face, waiting for some expression, some words of judgement. With a dramatic puff of a sigh, Paul wiped away a slight sniffle and then whispered in a choked rasp.  
  
“S’beautiful. Just perfect. I’m yer number one fan, ya know?”   
  
Still seated in his cross-legged postion, John rolled forward over the guitar and kissed Paul lightly on the mouth, until Paul grunted and grabbed his partner by his damp hair and pulled him into a deep, open-mouthed snog. The only thing separating them now was a well-loved, old acoustic.   
  
John partially broke the kiss for air, his lips still touching Paul’s mouth.  
  
“I love you more than anything, Paul. Don’t be afraid, ok?”  He murmured against the warm wetness of Paul’s lips.   
  
“I love you, John.”   
  
Slowly John sat back; they stared at each other silently, until Paul broke the trance and looked over at the clock.  
  
“Shit, it’s nearly two o’clock. I gotta go home, at least to make an appearance. And I need to have a talk with Linda.”  
  
“Me too. Go home, that is.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m heading back to New York, Paul. After a quick visit with Julian tomorrow. Shit, I haven’t seen him in so long.”  
  
“Wait, what? Yer going… but yer seeing Jules? I mean, that’s great. What are you gonna tell him?”  
  
“That I’m getting a divorce and moving back ‘ere with Sean, and that I want to be a part of his life, if he’ll have me. I figure we can tell the other part… the part about us… we can tell him that part together.”  
  
Paul nodded, swallowed and looked down at his shaking hands, wringing them to stop. It was happening. He was terrified and excited and filled with emotions he couldn’t even find words for.   
  
John noticed Paul’s gut-wenching anxiety; he knew the signs.  
  
“But do ya have to go back to New York, John?”  
  
“Paul, luv, I’ve already started the formal divorce proceedings. Spoke with my soliciters just yesterday.”  
  
John paused, and swallowed. A surge of insecurity raced through his veins, nearly as debilitating as the fucking smack used to be.  
  
 _“Paul’s not gonna go through with this, is he?”_  
  
Paul’s eyes were still glued to his fidgeting fingers when John spoke again.   
  
“S’gonna be messy and I’ll probably lose most of everything I’ve earned, but I’m fighting for custody of my son, Paul. I need to get back there to fucking finish this.”  
  
Shit. John sounded so confident and determined. Paul’s memory flashed back to a much younger John, growling one of his profanity-strewn “pep talks” before they left for Hamburg for the first time.   
  
“John, don’t go back. Just send for Sean and his nanny. I’ll book a plane and…”  
  
 _“He’s not coming back, ya fuckin idiot. He’s leaving ya again.”_  Paul’s jaw clenched in pain, his heart already breaking inside.  _“Just let him go.”_  
  
“Paul, I have to.” John interrupted, reaching out to cup Paul’s cheek. He lifted his partner’s face; Paul’s eyes were filled to the brim with tears.   
  
“Listen, Macca. Will ya look after me and Sean when I show up on yer doorstep next time, homeless and skint?” John’s eyes sparkled with jest behind his lenses.  
  
Paul forced a chuckle. “Yeah, I’ll keep ya off the dole… then ya’ll be my fuckin’ house husband. But John, listen… I’ll go with you to New York for support. I’ve still got the flat, ya know.”  
  
“Paul, luv. Ya need to stay here and start working on your end of things. OK? It’s gonna be hard, luv… gonna be bloody fuckin’ hard on your kids. Are ya prepared for that?”  
  
Paul froze for a moment, his mouth twisted in bitter sadness.  
  
“Yeah, I know it’ll terrible. And no, I’m not prepared. Not at all.” Paul sighed deeply. He sat there quietly for a few minutes, staring into John’s eyes. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke calmly. “But I will be. I’ll take care of things here. So, when will ya be back?”   
  
“Two, three months. I’ve got a fuckload of nonsense and legal crap to sort out and some recording to wrap up at the Record Plant before I can leave New York… but, yeah. A couple of months should do it. I wanna spend Christmas with ya, if ya’ll have me.”  
  
With the familiar, metallic taste of vunerability on his tongue, John smiled, wondering in the back of his mind if he’d ever see Paul again. If he’d ever make love to him again.  
  
“Yeah, well I don’t trust ya, ya cagey fucker.” Paul sneered in jest and pointed his index finger at John’s bare chest. His dark eyes were drenched with worry. “I’m booking a private jet for your flight back here, back home. Ya better be on that plane, John.”  
  
“Ha, ya never change, luv. Always trying to control everything. Ya can’t control me, Paul.” John kissed Paul passionately, cupping his face in his palms, and then pulled back again. “I’ll be back for Christmas, Macca. Trust me, luv.”  
  
~~~~~~  
  
 **Scotland, 4 December, 1980**  
  
It was late in the morning, and Paul couldn’t stop touching shit. He roamed around the rented cottage, checking every detail, shifting around knickknacks and rearranging pillows. He knew it was just an extreme case of nerves, and his natural compulsiveness, but suddenly he felt like a bleeding fairy. Fuck. He stopped, and lit a smoke, willing his heart to slow down, for shit’s sake. 

  
John was to arrive in two days; the private jet for him and Sean and the nanny was booked for JFK, and the driver informed. McCartney convinced John to leave that Seaman twat back in New York, though. Through the brisk, early December air, Paul had driven the long trek up the motorway to the cottage early yesterday to make sure everything was in order.   
  
It was going to be their first Christmas together, with plenty of time to relax and adjust and fuck before the kid-packed holidays arrived. Paul had planned it perfectly.   
  
In the early winter quiet of the Highland countryside, Paul jolted in surprise when the phone rang.  _“S’probably John.”_  
  
Suddenly he appeared, leaning against the wall and seated on the floor, his boots kicked out in front of him. It was all of him this time, from head to toe, exactly as he looked in 1962—eccentric and breathtaking and dangerously vulnerable.  From across the room, young, dead Stu watched Paul lift the phone receiver, as if the whole scene was a picture show shot in slow motion. Shit, being dead was fucking weird sometimes.  
  
“Hello.”   
  
Stu couldn’t hear the conversation on the other end of the call, but he knew it was John.  
  
“Hey, are ya ready, luv? Got yer shit packed?”  
  
“…”  
  
Stu saw Paul’s smiling face begin to stiffen. Paul rubbed the side of his nose anxiously.  
  
“What do ya mean two or three more weeks?”  
  
“…”  
  
“John? Are ya back with her?”  
  
Paul’s hands began to tremble. He clutched the receiver in the crook of his neck, and lit a smoke, trying to stay calm.  
  
“…”  
  
“All right!  Shit, I know. I know ya love me. But John, you can fuckin’ record the songs anywhere. They can’t restrict ya to a particular studio!”  
  
“…”  
  
“John…”   
  
“…”  
  
"John… fuckin’ shut up for a minute.” Paul took a deep breath and sank down onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall. “I left my family. I left my kids, John. I’m sitting here in a holiday cottage in Scotland and your arriving in two days. That's what we planned."  
  
“…”  
  
“Fuck yer contract! We’ll record it here in England… or Scotland, or wherever the fuck we wanna record it!”  
  
“…”  
  
“For shit’s sake, I know it’s your fuckin’ record.”  
  
“…”  
  
“Listen, luv. I’m sitting here by meself. I drove up from London and I’m alone and I wanna see you. Please get on the fuckin’ plane!” Paul spat the last few words through gritted teeth.  
  
“…!”  
  
Without warning, something gripped Stu’s gut and twisted it into a knot. Holy fuck. John was gonna fight, the stubborn prick. He was gonna win this lovers’ battle. He couldn’t win.  
  
Stu lifted himself off the floor, walked over and sat next to Paul.   
  
 _“Johns needs to get on that bloody plane, McCartney!”_  Stu shouted into the air. Sutcliffe had to take a breath and close his eyes. Paul’s energy was fucking intense.  
  
 _“Convince him to get out of there, ya twat!”_  But no matter how much Stu hollered, Paul couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t see him. Stu simply didn’t exist. He could only watch Paul make decisions with no firm direction.   
  
It was free will.   
  
It was heartache.  
  
“Fuck, you John! I don’t give a shit if ya show up or not. I knew I couldn’t trust you, ya cunt!”  
  
Paul slammed the phone down, knocking over a pile of albums that were balanced precariously on the table. From the middle of the stack, a sleeve from a Beatles record slipped out, revealing his old mates faces on the cover, leaning over the edge of a balcony.  
  
Stu’s breath hitched momentarily at the sight of that smile, a goofy grin that he hadn’t seen in fucking ages, and suddenly he realized what he needed to do.  
  
 _“Of course, Sutcliffe, ya daft shit.”_  Stu smacked his head hard, though he couldn’t feel it.  
  
He turned and looked at Paul. Still seated on the floor, Paul’s knees were drawn up to his chest, his face resting in his hands, sobbing quietly and swearing curses. Stu leaned over and wrapped his slight frame around Paul’s shoulders.  
  
 _“Listen to me, McCartney. I gotta go see someone. Hang in there, wanker.”_  
  
Sutcliffe pushed himself up and began to walk towards the wall, when he turned back to glance at Paul one more time.  
  
 _“Oh… and ya owe me some fuckin’ royal jelly, ya arrogant little prick!”_  
  


 

 


	29. Chapter 29

_**5\. Listen to our mates**_  
  
  
 **Liverpool, 1961**  
  
  
“Oi, Geo! Over ‘ere, mate!”   
  
In tight, worn denim trousers and his black leather jacket, Paul shouted above the constant noisy drone that saturated the student pub, waving his hand frantically to try to catch Harrison’s attention. Paul had spotted George’s greased quiff of brown curls bobbing around aimlessly like a pissed rooster, searching for McCartney through the crowded throng of arsty college tossers.   
  
In was near the start of the new school year; Ye Cracke was jammed with students reuniting loudly with old mates and scouting out the new talent in this year’s fresh crop. Pint glasses clinked, kids hooted and hollered, eyes met and lingered. The whole room was filled with clouds of cigarette smoke and the palpable sweetness of mushrooming lust. It was a whole new season of possibilities.  
  
When Harrison’s heap of locks disappeared behind the horde for a moment, Paul stopped waving and rubbed his face vigorously. Shit. He and George rarely spent time alone mucking about anymore; Paul was either with John or some bird most days. But on this late September afternoon, Paul craved Harrison’s relaxed company over pints, a chance to talk about guitars and tits and music and the simple shite in life. Right now, McCartney didn’t need a leader or a partner or a clingy snatch, just the uncomplicated comfort of mindless banter with his guitar-obsessed brothermate.   
  
George finally spotted Paul, who had resumed to waving his arm hysterically, like a mad traffic officer.  
  
 _“Cor, I see ya, Paul. Sit the fuck down, ya flailing ponce!”_  
  
George sighed deeply with a slanted grin, as he took a sip of foam off his fresh bevvy and raised a thick eyebrow with a nod in acknowledgement of Paul’s wild gesticulations. Paul was alone at a table near the windows; with a sweeping glance around the crowded room, George didn’t see John anywhere.  
  
 _“Lennon must be off with Stuart, again. Shit.”_  
  
“Lo, Paul!” Having pushed his way through the sweaty mob, George plopped his skinny, eighteen-year old arse down on the pub seat across from his boyhood mate. He shook off his wool jacket, raised his glass in greeting and lit a smoke. With a quick move of his hand, he sculpted his hairstyle pile even higher off his head, if that was fucking possible.  
  
“Oi, Geo. Yer ‘ere, mate!” Paul’s eyelids were slightly heavy, as he looked up into George’s young, thin face through his fans of dark lashes. “Yer ‘ere.”   
  
“Er… yeah, Paul. I’m ‘ere. I told ya I’d be ‘ere.” George eyebrows tightened in concern for his old friend. “Are ya ok, Paul?”  
  
“Whah? Oh yeah, just great!” Paul slipped into his full-cheeked, plastic smile, fingering his unlit cigarette. He words were starting to slur a bit.   
  
One too many pints down Macca’s gullet already.   
  
George noticed.   
  
Fuck, the sun hadn’t even begun to set yet. And they had a gig tonight up north in Litherland.  
  
“Spare a light, Geo?”  
  
George fished around in the pocket of his brown trousers, pulling out a box of matches.   
  
“So why’d ya wanna meet at this wanker shithole, Paul? Ya fuckin’ hate this place.”  
  
“Dunno. Thought we might chat up the new talent. There’s a few fit college birds ‘ere.”  
  
Well, wasn’t that a cartload of bloody horseshit.   
  
George suspected that Paul chose this wreched pub near the art school in hopes of ‘accidently’ running into John, no better than some pathetic, lovesick skirt. Harrison frowned in disbelief, as his deep, dark eyes looked around the room. “Uh, so where’s this talent, Paul?”  
  
“How ‘bout that one?” Paul nodded too emphatically towards a longhaired brunette thing in a short tweed jacket standing with her friends at the bar. Harrison turned to look and snorted.  
  
“Christ, Paul. What’s wrong with ya? She’s a right spaniel. John wouldn’t even pull her.”  
  
Fuck.   
  
George hadn’t meant to mention John.   
  
Fuck.  
  
Paul looked down into his pint glass, and sighed wistfully. Cupping his chin in his hand, he took another long drag, looking out the windows nearby. “Yeah… s’ppose yer right.” He turned back to face George, his false smile darkened by dejection.  
  
George exhaled a cloud of smoke. He didn’t know what the hell was going on between Paul and John. A couple of years earlier, he had figured that his friend just idolized barmy Lennon, like everyone did. He was John fuck-the-world Lennon, after all.   
  
But after watching those two for years… the stares and smiles and winks and touches… not to bloody mention that lovely arse poking scene that George had witnessed in that Hamburg alley only a few months ago. Christ. George sometimes felt like a helpless visitor at the zoo, watching two captured animals pace back and forth in their cramped boxes, longing to be together, were it not for the steel cage bars that kept them safely apart.  
  
And now, back from their second Hamburg booking less than three months, and Lennon was fucking it up, again.   
  
Fucking with Paul’s mind, and his heart.   
  
Suddenly, Paul snapped out of his melancholy, and started blabbering on about some new set of chords he’d picked up recently. Thank god for small favors, George sighed. They spent the next pint just jabbering away an hour in animated conversation, oblivious to the packs of standing tossers huddled around their table, sticking their arsty arses in their faces. Paul gradually relaxed, slouching in his seat, his dark eyes droopy and naturally playful, even with George. Especially with George. He barely thought about John at all.   
  
Without warning, their private guitar chat was interrupted abruptly.  
  
“Hello, Paul.”  
  
Fuck. Paul shimmied to sit up properly, absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair.   
  
“Hello, Cyn. How are ya, luv?”  
  
“I’m well, ta. Have you seen John?”  
  
“Um, no. I ‘aven’t, Cyn. Not for a few days. Sorry.”  
  
“Oh. All right then.” And she smiled, nodded to George and walked away, as if she had never been there. Out the front door of the pub, back to her lonely isolation. Despite his jealousy over everyone in John’s life, Paul’s heart broke for her. Poor abandoned Cyn.   
  
For Christ’s sake—poor fuckin’ Paul!   
  
Daft fool.   
  
John wasn’t showing up.   
  
“Shit, let’s get outta this fuck hole, Geo. Pop over to the music store or something, yeah?”  
  
Geoge beamed, all teeth and smile wrinkles. He hadn’t spent this much time with Paul just being carefree lads mucking about town in a while.  
  
“Sounds gear.”  
  
Grabbing his scarf off the seat, Paul turned to slide out of the booth when he was blocked.  
  
“Budge up then.”  
  
Paul’s breath hitched sharply at the sound of his voice, as his firm arse instinctively obeyed and shifted over towards the wall. John’s piercing almond eyes, dancing with mischief behind his lenses, bore right through him, into the pit of his groin. Fuck, Lennon looked good—leather jacket collar upturned, soft flop of auburn curls, heavy-framed glasses, bloody devlish dimples. He was painfully beautiful. Paul’s neglected balls ached to just fucking touch him.  
  
Cor, life was simpler before he met John. Black and white, right and wrong, reality and fantasy. Nothing made fucking sense to Paul anymore now that he was a willing prisoner in Lennonland.   
  
John grabbed Paul’s pint glass and swallowed the remainder with a satisfied gasp and a chuckle.   
  
“All right, John.” George nodded and murmured with bitterness. Fuck. He and Paul had nearly got away in time.  
  
“Lo, ‘arrison. You lads gettin’ arseholed before a paying job? We gotta a gig tonight, right? Tsk. Tsk. Not professional, Macca.” John’s exaggerated clownish chiding caused Paul to choke on a snort. Shit, he could smell John—cigarettes and leather and a faint hint of that aftershave he wore. Paul’s heart was racing; a slight blush erupted from beneath his pale skin, blotching his cheeks and throat. He felt the vein in his neck throbbing in rhythm with his pounding pulse. Fuck.   
  
“Gotta keep a mindful eye on the weanlings, John.” Stu nodded in jest at Paul, as he took off his dark sunglasses and scooted up in the booth next to George. They had never liked each other much, Paul and Stu. Shame, really. Had Stu lived, no doubt they would have become great friends. In death, Stu was sure of it. Stu was sure of many things afterwards.   
  
“Don’t worry ‘bout me playin’, Sutcliffe. Maybe if ya got arseholed, ya could actually play a simple bass line, fuckin’ twat.” Paul slurred slightly, his lips pursed. He wasn’t pissed… just a bit woozy was all. John couldn’t pull his gaze from Paul’s pouty mouth, moist from the ale and twisted with anger.  
  
“Stuart, luv. Make yerself useful and get us a pint then, will ya?” John interrupted.  
  
Stu smirked and got up, shoving a group of younger students out of his way as he moved over to the bar.   
  
“Oi, I’ve got news!” John suddenly hollered, as he discretely ran his hand up the inside of Paul’s thigh under the pub table, stopping just below Paul’s lad package. McCartney swallowed and turned to look at him, trying to hold a disinterested expression, one eyebrow cocked in curiosity. John reached into his leather jacket pocket with his other hand, and pulled out an envelope.  
  
“Early birthday pressie from me new favorite auntie!” John waved the pale blue envelope in front of Paul and George’s faces, beaming with an electric smile. He lowered his slky voice to a growl. “Hundred fuckin’ quid!”  
  
“Oi, lemme see!” George yelped, pawing for the envelope. John playfully teased Harrison with it, offering out the envelope and then pulling the paper back before George could snatch it. “Yer a prick, Lennon.” Harrison finally slouched back with disgruntled huff.  
  
John winked at the skinny lad and then carefully offered the coveted prize to Paul, who took the envelope out of John’s hand gingerly. Out of habit and need, the two moved closer together on the shared bench, John’s arm resting along the top of the booth seat above Paul’s shoulders.  
  
“Cor, I’ve never fucking seen a hundred quid before.” Paul practially whispered, as he peered into the envelope, eyes bugged out wide at the sight of all that cash. “Whatcha gonna do with it, John?”  
  
“Dunno know just yet.” John’s hand ran back down Paul’s thigh and squeezed his leg above the knee. Relunctantly, he removed his hand from the lad’s warm body and opened the envelope. After withdrawing a tenner from the envelope, John stuffed his birthday cash in Paul’s jacket pocket.   
  
“Oi, ‘arrison. Go get yerself and Macca pints, mate. And don’t pocket me change, son.” John barked, anxious to be rid of their gangly sidekick for a bit. He needed to talk to Paul alone.  
  
Fuck. John never paid for beers. Well, almost never. George quickly grabbed the crisp bill off the table and squeezed his lanky frame through the crowd, over to the bar where Stu was still waiting for his drink order.   
  
“So what do ya think I should do with me windfall, Macca?”   
  
“Shit, I dunno. Buy a guitar, that black one ya’ve been eyeing in the store window for months now.”  
  
“Yer gettin’ predictable, luv.” John chuckled softly, readjusting his glasses, as he cupped Paul’s balls briefly, giving the squishy delicacies a gentle sqeeze.  
  
~~  
  
Stu turned, surprised to see young Harrison at his side, waving a ten pound note at the barkeeper.  
  
“Oi, where’d ya get the spanky new tenner, son?”  
  
“John. He’s feeling generous I s’ppose, what with his wad of birthday quid.”  
  
“Smashing! Let’s ‘ave a pint ‘ere at the bar, Georgie porgie.” Stu lowered his voice and raised an eyebrow toward the booth where John and Paul sat huddled close together. “Ya know, let’s stay ‘ere for a bit and give the lovebirds some time alone.” Stu spoke the last words so softly that Harrison wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.  
  
“Huh?” Turning to look at the older lad, George’s face was twisted in confusion. Did Sutcliffe just say that? “What are ya on about, Stu?”  
  
~~  
  
“Well, if not a new guitar, what then? A hundred quid’s a bloody fortune, John.”  
  
“I’m thinking maybe I’ll go on holiday, ya know. Get the fuck outta this shithole city for a while.”  
  
“Where would ya go, John?” Paul heart skipped a beat at the thought of John absent from his life, again.   
  
“Dunno… Spain perhaps. Or France. Loose birds and those baguette things and gorey bullfights. Sounds like a right piss, doesn’t it?”  
  
~~  
  
“Stu? What are ya sayin’ bout Paul and John?” George mumbled in a hushed tone.  
  
“C’mon Georgie. I mean, shit. John kips at Gambier most of the time, right?”  
  
“So?” George wasn’t sure how much longer he could feign ignorance. Fuck, Sutcliffe knew too.   
  
Fuck.   
  
“So how many times ya wanna guess that I’ve walked in on John and his pretty boyfriend rollin’ round under the bed covers?”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah. S’alright though. Feels kinda normal, actually. Well, normal for John anyroad.”  
  
~~  
  
“Spain? I never knew ya wanted to go to fuckin’ Spain, John.”  
  
“Neither did I.” John laughed, and then without warning his face turned serious. “Wanna come with me, Macca? Just the two of us, hitchhikin’ like we did when we went to Reading.”  
  
“Go to Spain? I dunno, John. Me da’s not gonna…”  
  
“No, Paul—yer dad’s never gonna. Fuck ‘im. Come with me.”  
  
“What about Cyn? Why aren’t ya asking Cyn or Sutcliffe or Shotton or… fuck, I dunno… someone else?”  
  
“Cause I’m asking you, Paul. I’m pickin’ you, luv.”  
  
~~  
  
“So how do  _you_  know about their, um… arrangement, ‘arrison?”  
  
“I don’t know anything, Sutcliffe. Yer full of shit.”  
  
“Rubbish. Ya know that I’m dead on. Did McCartney confide in ya, then? Tell ya all about the queer naughties he does for John when their alone?” Stu poked George in the ribs spastically.  
  
“Piss off, Stu!”  
  
“C’mon Georgie. Ya can tell me. I already know ‘bout it. I have for some time. Ya must be fuckin’ dyin’ to spill yer wee guts to someone.”  
  
“Christ, I saw them, all right! In Hamburg. Buggerin’ and kissin’ and… shit, Stu.”  
  
“You actually saw them bangin’ each other?” His brown eyes wide open with shock, Stu was truly stunned at Harrison’s confession, shaking his head in disbelief.   
  
“Ya watched ‘em fuck? Bloody ‘ell, son.”  
  
“Yeah, bloody ‘ell…”   
  
Two fresh pints were slid in front of the young guitarist; he took a long, nearly suffocating gulp of warm ale and belched.   
  
~~  
  
“Why?” Paul crossed his arms, as one of his bitchier expressions overtook his beautiful face.   
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Why me? I ‘aven’t seen ya or ‘eard from ya in fuckin’ days, John.”  
  
“Didn’t realize I had to check in with ya, mother.” John lit a smoke, his lips stretched thin in annoyance. “Don’t be a bird, Paul.”  
  
“Fuck you, John! I’m no bird. Ya should know  _that_  better than anyone, luv.” Paul drew out the last syllable, slurring his consonants a tad. “So bloody answer me then. Why me?”  
  
“Cor, ya don’t make things easy, do ya Macca?” John voice dropped, as he looked Paul straight in the eyes. “Cause we’re lovers, Paul. I wanna fuck ya in Paris and then I wanna love ya some more in Spain, for shit’s sake.”   
  
Lovers? Shit, John had never said that before.   
  
They were lovers.   
  
Paul couldn’t breathe for a moment. His hands were shaking, so he stuffed them in between his thighs and took a deep, sharp breath.  
  
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around, Paul. I am. It’s just that I had thinkin’ to do, s’all.”   
  
“So ya need Sutcliffe hangin’ about yer person now to think properly?”   
  
“Christ, this is getting’ bloody tiresome, McCartney! Listen to me. I just now ran into Stu on the street outside the fuckin’ pub entrance. Told ‘im about me quid pressie. Told ‘im you and me were takin’ a trip… to Paris.”  
  
“I ‘aven’t said that I’d go with ya, John.” Paul sighed in a bizarre mixture of elation and frustration. Shit he wanted to go. “Paris, huh?”  
  
“Figured we’ll stop in Paris for a bit, yeah. S’ppose to be romantic.” John took off his specs and batted his long eyelashes with a wicked grin.  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
 **Henley-on-Thames, 4 December, 1980**  
  
  
Tucked away safely under the covers, lulled nearly asleep by gentle guitar strumming, the toddler squished up his little nose at the tickling sensation of his father’s thick, furry moustache. Long fingers tenderly fluffed the boy’s shock of dark hair, before running a rough thumb pad down and over his soft cheek.   
  
Harrison took a deep breath and smiled that trademark toothy grin. Shit, he never knew it was possible to feel this much love, to feel this vunerable to fate and the future and haphazard happenstances. Now that his son was more a child and less a baby, he undrstood that being a father for the first time was wonderful, and brilliant, and the most fucking terrifying thing he’d ever gotten himself into. Scared and estatic, Harrison felt truly blessed.   
  
“Sleep tight, my precious boy. Have a lovely kip.” George got up from the bed and dimmed the light down before closing Dhani’s bedroom door. George had decided earlier that day that he would take a much-needed break from work and the studio, and instead stroll around and generally muck about the gardens of his Crackerbox Palace… peruse his magical kingdom for a bit. It was an unusually warm day for early December in southern England; some sun on his face would do him good.  
  
Having fixed another hot cuppa before heading outside, George leisurely walked by the pristine, formal gardens and past the fantastic grotto fountains towards a private retreat garden that he had specially decorated for relaxing afternoon tea times. After sitting down in the metal bistro chair, he adjusted his striped trousers and pulled out the newspaper tucked in his purple corduroy jacket pocket. Soon, he lost his attention in a daft article about some equally daft actress he’d never heard of.   
  
“George.” The whispering voice came from some where over by the barberry bushes.  
  
What the fuck? George looked around, but he was completely alone. Well, not entirely alone. Sculptures of garden gnomes kept him company in his verdant sanctuary.  
  
“Oi, Georgie porgie!” The man’s voice was louder now. Fuck. George swung his head around like a dazed owl, trying to see the source.   
  
Nothing.   
  
Shit, no one had called him ‘Georgie porgie’ in a long fucking time. George tried to remember when and where he’d last heard that horrible nickname, but he couldn’t.   
  
After finishing his tea, Harrison returned to his paper, looking up every minute or so to inspect the cozy yard escape; weirdos sometimes snuck onto the property when Friar Park was closed to the public. Out of the corner of his eye, George thought that he saw something move. Then he saw it move again, over by the shrubs.  
  
Shit, it wasn’t just moving. It was walking straight towards him. One of the fucking antique gnomes was marching with purpose in his direction. George looked into the teacup, remembering days when his tea was often sweetened with a delightfully bizarre trip. But he didn’t drop acid anymore, and this little stone bugger was definitely coming directly at him.  
  
“Oi, Georgie, me lad. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The gnome genuflexed with dramatic flair as it tried to remove the pointed cap that was carved from the same stone as its head.   
  
Frozen in place, not daring to move a muscle, George couldn’t speak for a few moments. Finally, he caught his breath and sputtered out a tangle of words.  
  
“Whah… I must be… no, this couldn’t happen. What the fuck?”  
  
“Don’t recognize me, do ya, Georgie porgie?” The dwarflike creature raised its pudgy little arm and pointed a fat digit to its smiling, bearded face.  
  
George looked away for a second, tapping his finger against his jaw. Who the hell always used to call him that fucking nickname? And why the fuck was Harrison’s nineteenth-century, Bavarian garden sculpture speaking with a Liverpudlian accent! Why did that little statue sound so familiar? George’s brain was spinning from his self-inflicted birage of questions that had no answers.  
  
“Cat got yer tongue then? It’s me, ‘arrison! Stu! Ya remember me, don’t ya? Stu Sutcliffe.”  
  
“Stu? Shit, Stu… you’ve fuckin’ changed, mate. Is this what happens then? Did ya reincarnate as a garden sculpture?”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, George. No! Shit. This was just the only way I could get ya to hear me. Thank bloody ‘ell that yer spiritually open mind can actually hear fucking spirits, ya soft twit.”  
  
“So it’s your spirit, Stu… in the what... the body of a gnome?”  
  
“Fuck. McCartney, no surprise, couldn’t hear me at all, the daft prick. And now you’ve got a game of twenty-one questions for me. Listen, we don’t ‘ave time for this shit, George.”  
  
Gnome Stu hobbled over to the other bistro chair and scrambled up with some effort, hoisting his body with his tiny but thick arms. With an exhausted huff, he sat back and settled in, crossing his short little legs.  
  
“You saw Paul?”   
  
 _“I can’t believe I’m fucking talking to a fucking gnome.”_ George chuckled nervously inside.   
  
“Yeah, just came from this country place he’s rented in Scotland. George, mate… McCartney left his family to be with John.”  
  
“What! You’re fucking with me now, Stu.”  
  
“I’m a goddamn garden gnome, George. Why on earth would I fuck with ya, huh?”  
  
“Shit. Really? Paul’s actually done it.”  
  
“Yeah, he has, the barmy bastard. But now John’s fuckin’ it all up again. Listen, George, ya gotta go talk to John. Tell him to get off his arse and go to Paul in Scotland. Ya gotta convince him. Now!”  
  
“Wait one fucking minute, Stu gnome thing. I ‘aven’t seen John in ages. We ‘aven’t been talking much at all lately.” George’s voice dropped lower with tinges of sadness and regret. “S’not good between us right now.”   
  
“Too fucking bad, ‘arrison. Kiss and make up! This is it, mate. This is their last chance to try to make this fucked up 'whatever it is' work. They’re not gonna get another chance, George. Not in this life, anyroad.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Gnome Stu let out a loud sigh. Some things George didn’t need to know.   
  
“Just trust me, mate. Ya ‘ave to do this.”   
  
Suddenly, the animated dwarf statue stood up on the chair. His face was still smiling stupidly, but somehow his stone features were also morphed into a twisted expression of dead seriousness. He pointed his finger at George as he growled.  
  
“Leave for New York, now. Tonight, George. Talk to John. Convince him to get on a plane to Scotland immediately. Better yet, put him on the fucking plane yerself. Got it? Are ya listenin’ to me, Georgie porgie?”  
  
George didn’t understand why fistfuls of knots were now swirling inside his stomach, squeezing his gut. He felt lightheaded and dizzy and nauseous all of a sudden. He grabbed on to the edge of the small table and pushed himself up, out of his chair. Shaking all over, he slowly walked out of the private garden. Then, without warning he stopped and turned around to look back at the statue. Stu’s piggy gnome eyes were staring at him fiercly, hurling barbs of urgency into his back, pushing Harrison forward.   
  
George almost collapsed on the back patio before finally stumbling into the kitchen.  
  
“Oh my god, George. What happened?” His face was pale and covered with beads of sweat; he hands were trembling but his eyes were noticeably focused and bright.   
  
“I gotta fly to New York, darling. Tonight.”  
  
“What? New York? Why do you have to go to New York, honey?”  
  
“I have to do the bloody impossible and get that stubborn arsehole of a prick on a bloody plane. Fuck me!”  
  
George suddenly chuckled affectionately, and wrapped his arms tightly around his bewildered wife, burying his face in her dark hair.


	30. Chapter 30

**_5\. Listen to our mates_**  
   
   
   
 **New York City, 7 December 1980**  
   
Even though it was getting late, John still sat motionless in front of the mixing console, staring in frustration at the parallel rows of knobs and faders.  With a groan, he took off his glasses and rubbed his hands along his jean-covered thighs; grabbing his Irish cable knit jumper off the nearby chair, he pulled it down over his white T-shirt, lifting out his long, curly auburn hair from the thick neck hole. Most of the lights in the recording studio were turned down. His broad shoulders were lit only by the track lanterns above, the occasional flame of a lighter illuminating John’s strong features.  
   
The record studio house engineer popped his head in the door of the wood paneled space. “Are you going to be working much longer, John?”  
  
  
“Na, Roy. I’ll be heading home soon. S’gettin’ close to Sean’s bedtime.”  
   
“Take as much time as you need, man.  I’ll be in the back storage room, so just holler.”  
   
John languidly blew out a cloud of smoke and took another long gulp of Scotch and coke.  He rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes and put his glasses back on his curved nose. Shit, he wished he weren’t going home to an empty bed; he desperately wanted Paul’s warm, naked body all curled up cozy under their bed covers, waiting for him.  They hadn’t been together since Paul’s surprise birthday trip to New York nearly two months ago. A low-key celebration, really… just the two of them and Sean at the Dakota flat, with chocolate cake and candles and piles of daft presents.   
   
And another Macca birthday song.  
   
And a delicious crotch-ripping blowjob pressie.  
   
Bloody hell, John was horny; weeks of transatlantic phone sex with his partner only provided fleeting releases that usually left him feeling more isolated and crippled than comforted.  He needed to hold Paul, touch him, smell him, bloody taste him.  Long distance fucking wasn’t enough anymore.  
   
 _“Christ!”_  John groaned under his breath, as he fiddled with a silver dial.  
   
Suddenly a loud shriek erupted out of the headphones dangling loosely from his neck. With a startled shudder, he quickly turned the dial back down.  
   
John didn’t think he could stand to listen to that bloody song again.  Why the fuck had he agreed to help her with this shit!  He was supposed to be severing connections with his ex-wife, not collaborating on her latest cacophony.  It must have been an unguarded, soft moment, John figured.  And her incessant, mystifying babble that finally broke him that afternoon when he grudgingly caved in to her demanding request.  
   
Fuck, Lennon!  
   
Now he was stuck trying to make something out of this crap noise.  And worse, her name was still on his goddamn recording contract with Geffen.  He had no choice, for crying out loud.  Mr. follow-the-rules McCartney should understand that, right?  Course, shithead boyfriend Lennon should have actually told Paul that he had surrendered and agreed to help her out one more time.  But the fucking last thing he needed right now was some horseshit spat with Macca over nothing.  
   
He had no fucking choice but to fulfill this last commitment of his contract. Besides, John needed more time to sort shit out.  The reality of what they were planning to do was flooding waves of doubt and panic throughout his gut.  He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the console.  
   
 _“You know how hard this is going to be on Sean, don’t you John?  He may not understand everything about you and Paul now, but when he gets older… ”_  
   
Fuck, he couldn’t get her searing words out of his brain.  John bent his head down, and raked his strong fingers through his soft maple curls.    
   
 _“And what about poor Julian. Finding out about his daddy and Uncle Paul after all this time?  Haven’t you hurt him enough already, John?”_  
   
Her sharp, ruthless verbal missiles rattled around inside John’s aching skull.  Slowly, he took another swallow of carbonated alcohol and realized that his throbbing headache was getting worse.  Time to get the fuck out of there and go home to tuck in his son.    
   
In the spiteful but surprisingly brief divorce battle over John’s substantial fortune, he had won sole custody of their only child.  It cost him nearly every pence he had earned in the 70s, but Sean was his now. Seemed more than a fair bargain, John mused.  Greed was a powerful vice that Lennon had long since flushed down the bog.  Fortunately, her ravenous appetite was an obvious Achilles’ heel that John’s solicitors had exploited to his advantage during the proceedings.  
   
John took off the headphones and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. Satisfied that he had done all he could stomach for one night, he turned to get his heavy leather jacket when he noticed a figure standing over by the door in the shadows, alone.  
   
“’Lo, John.  S’been a while, hasn’t it?”  
   
“How did ya get the fuck in ‘ere?  Nobody minding the front?”  
   
“Sweet talked my way past the desk girl.  I’ve been schooled in a few McCharmly tricks over the years.”  
   
Furious and confused and exhausted, John still couldn’t help but smirk at hearing his old friend say Paul’s nickname with that distinctly thick, gravelly accent.  It  _had_  been a while.  Yet as quick as Lennon’s flash of a smile came, it disappeared, replaced instead by narrowed, stone cold eyes.  
   
“So, why did ya do that to me, George?  Ya know I’m bloody right pissed off about that book rubbish of yers, luv.”  
   
“So I’ve heard.  Listen, John—I didn’t intend to upset ya.  It wasn’t supposed to be my Beatle George memoir. It’s not an “everything I fucking learned from the great, almighty Jock Lennon” book!  Bloody ‘ell, mate!”   
   
Irritated, George sighed with a shake of his head. A nasty brawl with Lennon’s ego was a distraction they didn’t have time for now. George ran his hand through his hair, and chuckled with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.  
   
“If it helps, I pissed off Paul as well.”  
   
“Bullocks! And it fuckin’ doesn’t. Ya owed me more than that, Harrison. A fucking lot more than that! ” John fell back in his chair again, kicking his feet up on the sound board aggressively, lighting a smoke.  
   
“So when did ya talk to Paul then?”  John snarled, stewing in his insecurities.  
   
“He rang me up last week, I think.”  George quickly softened his deep voice, easily shifting the energy in the studio. He knew how to handle a gruff, angry Lennon.  “He told me about the house he’s renting up in the Scottish Highlands. McCartney’s there now, ya know.”  
   
George moved out of the dimness, and pulled up a chair next to his former leader. He swept his thick, coffee brown hair back again and leaned forward, readjusting his short denim and sheepskin coat, lowering his voice.  
   
“So ya know then… that Paul’s left Linda, John.  He’s left his family for you.”  
   
As the anger drained from his chest, John was forced dumb for a moment when his throat clenched shut. He thought back to that first, long phone call from Paul after his life-long lover had at last chucked off his domestic security blanket… that strange mixture of bittersweet pride and heartbreaking anguish in Paul’s weak, sobbing voice.  Finally, John cleared his passage with a cough.  His raspy growl dropped to a whisper.  
   
“Yeah, I know.”  
   
“You were s’pposed to be on a plane to Scotland, John.  Two days ago, right?  What’s goin’ on?”  
   
“I’ve gotta finish this recording commitment, George.  I bloody told Paul that!  I told him it’d only be a couple more weeks.”  
   
Silence covered the room, as the guitarists both stared at each other.  
   
“Fuck, George.  Why are we talkin’ about this? And why the fuck are you even here?”  
   
George looked down and huffed with a groan.  Slowly he raised his dark brown eyes, staring straight through John’s defenses.  He’d had hours waiting for the weather over London to clear and then more time on the plane to mull over exactly what he was gonna say to the stubborn prick.  
   
“Why are ya muckin’ about, John?  Paul’s waitin’.”  
   
“I just told ya, ya twit!  I’ve got a contract, George.  And, I still need to sort a few things out.”  John turned away, staring off into the darkness that enveloped the back corner of the studio.   
   
That sat that way comfortably for a while, in the poorly lit stillness, as old childhood friends do sometimes, even when they’re a tad fucking pissed off at each other.  They’d done this same dance dozens of times before.  George would wait. It would happen. It always did. Then finally, John spoke first.  
   
“Tell me, George—how old is yer son now?”  
   
“Hmm?  Dhani’s two and a half.  A brilliant bundle of energy, that boy. Shit, they grow up so fast.”  
   
John turned back to look at his younger ex-bandmate, his eyes soaked wet.   
   
“Sean’s just turned five.  He’s my last child, George. My final chance not to fuck it up.”   
   
John wiped his nose and pushed his glasses up.   
   
“This is gonna be a fuckin’ circus of a nightmare. How do ya think it’s gonna affect our kids, hmm?  Mine  _and_  Macca’s?  And our families and our friends… Christ!”  Without warning, John pictured Mimi’s disapproving, disappointed scowl. It amazed him sometimes to think that he still gave a flying fuck what she thought of him. That she cared.  
   
“Fuck, Harrison. How are you and Ritch gonna handle the brutal press attack that’s coming? It’s your careers too, ya know.”  
   
Slowly a grin spread across George’s jet-lagged, chiseled features.  
   
“John, I accepted a long time ago that I was playing guitar in the fuckin’ queerest band in Britain. Remember the bloody pink twat hats that Paul convinced us to wear? Shit, I’ve known about you and Paul since just about the fucking start of it all, John.”  
   
George sighed anxiously, and took a slurpy swig of John’s Scotch and coke, wetting the bottom edge of his thick mustache.  
   
“I know everything, John. I s’ppose that we’ve just never talked, s’all… we never really talked about you and Paul.” Slowly George’s handsome face beamed, his white teeth practically illuminating the shadows around him.  “It’ll be fine, mate.  It’s only love… fuckin’ noisy, wall-rattling love, but what you and Paul have is good. Seems normal to me, actually. And I imagine that Ritch feels the same way as well.”  
   
“If we go public with this, it’ll change everything, George. Fuckin’ everything.”  
   
“I’m not afraid of change, John.”  George pulled the metal folding chair closer to his former bandmate. The thought of what he wanted to say to John… what he needed to say to him… caused his handsome brown eyes to shine with tears. He looked down at his interlocked fingers as he spoke, not daring to look directly at John for this.  
   
“Listen, you and Paul don’t have hide and pretend in order to protect the band anymore.  The Beatles are just fine.  I know ya say that you don’t give a rat’s arse about the past and the band, but yer a fuckin’ liar, Lennon.  We both know it.”  George paused and cleared his throat.  “The Fab Four are forever gear, happily frozen in their vacuum-sealed plasticine box, shaking their perfectly daft moptops.  They’ll survive another press storm. Shit, we’ll probably sell a fuckload more old records. New fan base and all.”   
   
George snorted softly and finally raised his eyes as he let out a massive sigh, only to see tears streaming silently down John’s face.  
   
“It’s time for you both to move forward, and just let go of all that fuckin’ baggage. Ya don’t have to carry that weight anymore, mate.  John… it’s time for you two to be together, to just live and be John and Paul.”  
   
“And what fuckin’ happens if we don’t make it, George?”  John’s tone wavered and wobbled with palpable fear.  
   
“Why wouldn’t ya?”  
   
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”  John lit another smoke, and shot out a rapidfire barrage of mumbled words.  “Macca said something a while back about how shit might be different between us if we weren’t sneakin’ about. That it might not work. That  _we_  might not work.  What if he’s bloody right?”  
   
“Yeah, well, what if it’s better, ya twat! I swear that you two are yer own worst enemies sometimes.”  George laughed that low Harrison snort, before regaining his composure with a broad smile.   “Here’s the thing, John. Ya can speculate and ruminate yerself into a fuckin’ paralysis.  But ya won’t ever know…  _really_  know for certain… if ya don’t at least take the bloody chance.”  
   
“Shit.”  
   
“John, it’ll be quiet for a bit. Everyone’ll have some time to adjust—the kids, yer families and friends.”  George paused on purpose, as a naughty lightbulb went off in his head.  “I mean, unless it’s true that Paul’s planning a surprise poof ‘coming out’ concert on Friday in Edinburgh.”  George cocked an eyebrow, a wicked sparkle lighting up his eyes.  
   
John’s breath caught in his chest for a moment, his face suddenly drained of color, before he spat out.   
   
“Yer a fuckin’ prick, ‘arrison.”  
   
Leaning back in his chair, George tossed his head in hysterics.  He didn’t snare Lennon often, but when he did, it was fucking sweet.  With a sigh of relief, John lifted his specs and wiped his eyes off on his jumper sleeve.  No matter what happened, he and Harrison were brothers as well. They always would be.  
   
“So Macca sent ya then? To come fetch me?”  
   
“No, it wasn’t Paul. He doesn’t know I’m here.  Cor, I can’t believe I’m about to say this...” George took a sharp, deep breath before he spoke.  
   
“Fuckin’ dead Stu told me. No, Sutcliffe  _ordered_  me to come get your chicken-shit arse on a plane to Scotland.  Ya understand me, John?”  
   
John sat frozen, stunned, lips parted in shock.  Holy crap.  Finally, he reached for his large tumbler of drink and cleared his ragged voice.  
   
“I’ve talked to Stu too, George. A couple of times. Fuckin’ spooky if ya ask me.”  
   
“I figured as much.” George lowered his voice even further, cocking both his eyebrows.  “Here’s the kicker, mate. Arsehole Sutcliffe paid me a visit as one of me garden gnomes at Friar Park.  Scared the bloody piss out of me!  Crazy cunt.”  
   
Unfortunately, John had just taken a huge gulp of Scotch and coke to try to empty his clogged throat, which he proceeded to spray all over the console, all over her shit excuse for a record.  
   
After John regained a measure of control, he coughed out hoarsely.  
   
“Bastard always did have a flair for the dramatic!”  
   
“John, we gotta leave for Scotland now. Tonight.  Stu was crazy bat insistent about it.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Dunno.  Didn’t say. But he was one dead fuckin’ serious gnome.”  George had already decided it was likely unwise to mention the cryptic ‘this is their last chance’ comment of Stu’s.  God forbid stubborn Lennon should decide to dig his heels in just to reaffirm some horseshit power.  
   
“I’ve got a fuckin’ contract to wrap up, George.  I can’t leave til this is finished.”  
   
“For shit’s sake, John! What are ya workin’ on that’s so bloody important?”  
   
“Fuckin’ hell. It’s more avant-garde a clue bullshit.  Ya know, one of her new masterpieces.”  It sounded even dafter admitting his idiotic capitulation out loud.    
   
Shit.    
   
Then John waggled his eyebrows in jest at his younger friend, as he offered over the headphones.  
   
“Wanna hear it, mate?  
   
“What! What the fuck’s wrong with ya, Lennon? Fuck, no!  I don’t even wanna know how ya got yerself into this mess, but ‘ere…” George wrinkled his nose in disgust as he quickly reached for the wet sound board. His brow furrowed in concentration, he turned a few knobs, moved a few levers. Finally, George sat back in triumph.  
   
“There. Now it’s finished. The first ever Lennon-Harrison produced piece of dog crap. A fuckin’ number one hit! Get yer shit and c’mon.  We’re leaving, John.”  
   
“Now?”  
   
“Yeah, now!  Let’s go pick up yer kipbags and yer kid.  I’ve got a plane ready and waiting at the airport.”  
   
“Yer askin’ me to walk out on me fuckin’ recording contract, George.”  
   
“No, John. The spirit of yer dead artsy flatmate is demandin’ it.  I’m just the pretty messenger, luv.”  George batted his lashes, his face lit by his crooked smile.  “Hell, let ‘em sue ya for breach of contract! Paul would be fuckin’ thrilled to turn out his pack of wolves on your record company gits and her cronies.  Now  _that_  would be entertaining! Can’t ya see it, John?”  
 

~~~~~~

  
   
 **Scotland, 8 December 1980**  
   
The milky-grey sky was heavy and overcast, clearly threatening to unleash some form of precipitation on that early December afternoon—maybe cold drizzle, maybe snow showers.  Paul threw on his navy wool peacoat and striped knitted scarf; he figured that he had time to take Martha for a good walk in the fields outside the cottage before they made the long trek back down to London. He’d packed his bags earlier that morning, practically hurling his crap in the boot if his car in frustration.  So much for his ‘quaint cottage in Scotland for their first Christmas together’ idea, he growled under his breath.  
   
He’d barely had a wink of sleep the night before; escalating worries that John would never show up for the holidays whirled around his brain and kept him awake.  The two-week delay was bad enough, but the stabbing fear that John would back out on their plans entirely. Shit. Paul felt insecure and helpless, fucking out of control, and it was grating on his already frayed nerves.  He was anxious and tired and pissed off, an unsettling Maccamix.  
   
The tall, yellowed field grasses were still standing erect, not yet squashed flat by an early winter snowfall. As they made their way through the meadow, the wind whistling in his ears, Paul danced his fingers along the frosty tops of the stalks while Martha lunged about spastically, diving and nipping at imaginary playthings.  When they were some distance from the house, he stumbled upon a small clearing in the high grass and decided to sit down for a bit and get shelter from the cold breeze, while his dog emptied her bladder somewhere.  As he waited for her return, Paul clasped his knees up to his chest, watching the steamy clouds of his breaths billow out from between his lips.  
   
 _“Don’t fuckin’ do this to me, John! Don’t back out now!”_   Paul rocked and silently ached, his fears multiplying like a virus inside his heart.  
   
~~~  
   
George pulled the car up the long gravel drive to the cottage and threw the engine into park.  They’d barely spoken a word the whole trip from the airport; Harrison focused on the road as John stared silently out the passenger window, watching the Scottish hills roll by outside. Another, smaller car was already parked in front of the house. Must be Paul’s, they both reckoned. With a click, the boot lock released and popped open.  
   
“Think I’ll just let ya out here, John.”  
   
John turned around and peered into the back seat.  Sean was still blissfully snoozing under a blanket as John got out and opened the back passenger door.  He crawled in and gave his son a long, affectionate peck on the cheek, before lifting out his piece of luggage and acoustic guitar case from the open boot and returning to George’s driver’s side window.  
   
“Slept the whole way, didn’t he?”  John smiled, leaning on the rental car frame.  
   
“Yeah, the lad wore himself out on that long plane ride.  He’s a great kid, John.  Sean and Dhani will have fun muckin’ about in our gardens, I imagine.”  
   
“Just keep him away from yer fuckin’ crazy gnomes, right?”  
   
“Ha!  Yeah. Just ring me up when you’re ready for me to drive him back up here for the holidays.”  George paused, seeing familiar signs of nervous distress twisting John’s face.  
   
“You gonna be alright, mate?”  
   
“Everything’s gonna be just fine, George.  I’m here now.  That’s all that matters.  Thanks… thanks for everything.”  
   
“John?”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Don’t fuck this up, alright?  Don’t hurt him.”  John simply nodded and grinned at his old friend, and then walked up to the front door of the isolated cottage.  His stomach was choking his fucking throat, his hands were damp and clammy despite the chill, when he finally knocked hard on the green wooden door.  No answer.  He tried the handle and the door opened.  A few minutes later, after dropping off his bags inside, John returned.  
   
“He’s not here.”  
   
“Well, that must be his car, eh?”  George reasoned, his brows narrowed in concern.  “Why don’t ya look round the property for him?  I’ll wait here with Sean.”  
   
~~~  
   
Out in the field, Martha finally returned, panting with a smile; she sat directly in front of her broken master and stared into his wet eyes through her tangled locks, waiting for a hint of their next move.  
   
“Might just be you and me this Christmas, old girl.”  Fuck, why did he have to say that out loud!  Now tears were pooling up in Paul’s heavy, sad eyes.  He wiped them away with his scarf and cleared the lump of panic and heartbreak in his throat.  Maybe she’d still take him back, if he begged long enough and crawled back to his estranged wife on bended knees.  
   
What the fuck was he thinking! Paul ran his fingers through his short hair and choked on a sob.  
   
“I’ve nothin’ anymore, Martha luv. Chucked it all, like some daft lovesick skirt. But you’re still by me side, aren’t ya?”  Paul scratched her behind the ear, as his perfect mouth twisted in pain as streams of sorrow and loss finally spilled out over his rosy cheeks.  
   
Suddenly, Martha stood up and started to wag her backside fast, her brown eyes shining with excitement.  
   
Through the haze of sorrow, Paul didn’t notice.  
   
“Shit, I’ve lost everything that’s ever fuckin’ meant anything to me, girl.”   
   
“Ya haven’t lost  _me_ , wanker.” John whispered like silk into Paul’s left ear.  
   
As his arms wrapped around Paul’s sobbing torso from behind, Paul closed his eyes and collapsed back into John’s embrace, waves of relief and joy overtaking his muscles, draining his stoic strength away so that all that remained was a pile of gooey Macca mush.  John squeezed him tight and buried his face in Paul’s hair; Lennon was strong enough again for the both of them now.   
   
“Sshh, baby. Everything s’alright, Paul.”  
   
John slowly lowered Paul back and down into the frosty low grass, cradling his trembling body in the crook of his right elbow. He ran his fingers through Paul’s dark, feathered locks, wiping away the streams of tears, as Paul started to chuckle through his sobs.  
   
“You’re here.”  
   
“Course I’m here. Told ya I’d be here, didn’t I?”  Paul started to say something before John muffled his words with his lips, pressing them hard and hungrily against his lover’s soft, wet mouth, tasting Paul’s smile under the delicious pressure.  
   
“I love ya, Paul.”  John mumbled into the sloppy tongue fuck.  
   
“Shit, I love you, Johnny.”  
   
Without a sound, large fluffy snow began to fall down, quickly sheltering them in a cover a wet, cold softness.  John lifted himself up on an elbow and pressed his lips to Paul’s eyelashes, sucking off a sprinkling of snowflakes, kissing his curved, closed eyelids, nibbling over his eye wrinkle crinkles.  
   
It was beautiful and romantic and sublime. Until Martha felt left out.  
   
“G’roff me!”  John suddenly barked, as he began to rock back and forth into Paul’s hips.  
   
“John, I’m under ya, luv…” Paul snorted softly.  
   
“Not you, baby. Yer damn mangy mop of a dog.  She’s humping me arse, the randy bitch!”  
   
“Well, she’s me dog, isn’t she?”  Paul laughed heartily, wiping his eyes, and squirmed out from underneath John’s comforting, heavier weight.  “Let’s head back to the house, Johnny. S’getting’ cold out ‘ere.”  
   
From the front seat of the car, George watched them emerge from the tall meadow grasses, arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists.  He pinched the bridge of his nose to hold back a sudden surge of emotion and looked away, catching his breath.  Christ, he’d seen them stare and touch and sit in each other’s pockets for most of his life, but this was different. It was finally, obviously real. After quickly checking on Sean, Harrison opened the car door and got out to greet them.  Without thinking, the two let go of each other once they saw their old mate approaching, out of habit.  
   
“’Lo, Paul.”  
   
“George, luv.”  
   
“I’m heading over to say goodbye to Sean.”  John blurted awkwardly, realizing quickly that he wasn’t needed. For all his thick-skulled bullshit, John knew Paul and George had a close, precious relationship.  He just didn’t think about it all that often.  
   
“Thanks, Geo.  John told me that ya went to New York and brought his stubborn arse over here.”  
   
“S’alright, Paul. Quite a story, that one. I’ll have to tell ya ‘bout it sometime. I’m taking Sean back down to our house now. John’s boy is staying with us for a while to let you two catch up, ya know.  He seemed excited about it all.”  
   
“Thanks for lookin’ after him, mate.  John’s pleased as all hell.  Thank Olivia for us, eh?”  
   
“Our pleasure.  Dhani loves the company. Paul, mate… listen.” George’s sudden seriousness was relayed by his gorgeous scowl, bearing sharply into Paul’s gut.  
   
“Don’t hurt him, McCartney. Got it? I won’t stand for it.”  
   
“I won’t, Geo. Trust me, I won’t.  And thanks… again, luv.”  
   
“Hare Krishna, Paul.”   
   
“Hare Krishna, Geo.”  
   
And without another word, George was gone, zipping away in his rented red sports sedan back down to London, Lennon’s precious bundle secured safely in the back.  
   
~~~  
   
After the muted Scottish sun had long set over the snow-blanketed hills, Paul sat there on the quilt-covered mattress in the main bedroom of the cottage in his silk plaid pajama bottoms, waiting impatiently, when John finally burst into the room.  
   
“Sweets for me sweet!”  He exhaled, in his high-pitched wench voice, brandishing a tray of drinks and niblets.  Fuck, John was sauntering about in a yellow, daisy-encrusted kitchen apron… and nothing else at all, s’far as Paul could tell.   
   
“Where did ya find that?”  McCartney smirked, his eyebrows arched high in amusement, fingertip pressed against his full lower lip.  Shit, the sight of a naked Lennon in a fringed bird’s apron made his prick twitch and stiffen.  
   
“What? Me frilly frock?  Found it in the cupboard.  Looks smashing on me. Fits like a glove.”  Still in his silly voice, John turned around and bent down to place the tray of snacks and bevvies on a sturdy high table, his firm, freckled bum sticking out beneath the apron bow that was tied across his bare lower back. He was humming some bouncy ditty as he grabbed a cigarette and lit it.  
   
“So, uh… luv?  Yer not gonna change too much? Ya know, who you are… after we go public, are ya?”  Paul’s asked, his upper lip cocked in curiosity and lust.  
   
“Why what do you mean, Mr. McCharmly?”  John strolled over to the bed and crawled up on the mattress, lit smoke dangling between his lips.  “You don’t want me getting’ all flamboyant on ya then? No prancing about in me finery? But isn’t glam rock still alive and well?”  The high-pitched birdish tone squeezed through John’s tired vocal chords, almost hurting his throat.  
   
“No, it’s not, luv.  And I don’t want ya to change, that’s all.”  
   
“So you wanna be the only queen in this partnership, huh.” John leaned over and stubbed the half-smoked cigarette out.  
   
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Distracted, McCartney slipped into his mock hurt face, one of his more stupidly adorable expressions.  
   
His voice lowered to raspy honey, John teased with slight grin. “I’ve seen one or two of yer MTV films and TV specials on the telly, Paul. Ya should have just put a fuckin’ dress on and been done with it.”  John pushed himself up off the mattress, the edge of the apron caught on his increasingly hard cock. He noticed Paul drinking in an eyeful and pulled the yellow cloth down.  “Cheeky!   Now let’s have a drink, shall we?”  
   
“Yer a liar, Lennon!  I bet ya’ve watch every fuckin’ one of them, dozens of times, tossin’ off to me fabness, mind ya!”  
   
Paul watched John’s delicious bare arse jiggle with laughter and amble over to the snack table; Paul licked his parched lips without thought. When John leaned over to mix their drinks, Paul decided he couldn’t take another fucking minute of this tempting bum show. He jumped off the bed and came up behind his partner, wrapping and arm around John’s half-covered waist. As he glanced over to inspect the array of goodies, Paul quickly pushed down his own silk bottoms to his knees.    
   
“Hmm.  Nice spread, darling.  Ah, chocolate sauce, of course.  That’ll be perfect.”  
   
Paul snatched the bowl of chocolate sauce with his left hand as he pushed John down over the table with his right, hairy forearm.  
   
“Wait!”  John snorted, his cheek squished into the table surface.  Paul froze and let go for a moment as John grabbed his cocktail and downed the glass, exhaling with a satisfied sigh.  “Carry on, son.”  
   
With a hungry chuckle, Paul slathered the warm sweet chocolate goo over his pulsing prick. In one smooth move, he spread John’s bum and impaled him with a long, hard stroke… just the way the freckled lad still liked it.   
   
“Ah—fuckin’ ‘ell!”  John moaned, burying his face into his arm.  
   
“Ya know we’re in the middle of nowhere, right?  I think you can get much louder than that, luv.”  He ferociously pulled out and thrust back in again, pinning John’s chest to the wood with his weight.  Paul fucked John hard, repeatedly, until he got the sound he wanted screamed from John’s beautiful mouth.  He stripped off John’s apron and pulled his partner up by his maple curl shag handles.  With a deft spin maneuver, Paul shuffled them back to the bed, his cock still buried inside John’s flaming hot bum.  
   
Together they fell on the mattress in unison, the force of the fall driving Paul so deeply into his lover that John lost his breath, white stars floating before his eyes.  Shit.  He loved being taken by a forcefull Macca.  
   
After a few more driving strokes in John’s melting, prostrate body, Paul leaned to the side, grabbing his partner by the shoulders and hair, pulling him with him, down hard on his prick.  
   
“Bloody Christ, Paul!”  Fuck, McCartney loved to hear John gasp and wail a bit from a hard pounding.  Shit.  He watched the drops of sweat trickle down John’s forehead, those feline eyes clenched shut in excruciating pleasure. Out of nowhere, a tidal wave of love and adoration ripped through Paul’s body.   
   
John was here.  
   
Paul gradually slowed the rhythm of his thrusts.  He lifted John’s shuddering leg up and over his own narrow hips, spreading John’s pelvis wide.  As John cried out, Paul pulled John’s mouth to his own, smothering his lustful groans with tender butterfly kisses.  
   
“Ya’ve got one hell of a delicious rabbit hole, Lennon.”  
   
“Feel free to jump down it anytime, baby.”  
   
   
Several hours later, John snuggled and spooned his naked, beautiful lover as they both floated along in deep, satisfied slumber.  Lazily, he nuzzled his nose into the soft, black hairs on the back of Paul’s neck, as he gently ground his half-hard cock into Macca’s delightfully warm, inviting arse crack. Dawn was approaching, the earliest rays of light already seeping in through the curtains, but they’d sleep in late that morning.  Shit, they wouldn’t get out of bed much at all for another day or two.  
   
~~~  
   
Some three thousand or so miles away, across the Atlantic in New York City, two grimy pigeon mates sat on the sill of a window in Lennon’s flat, high atop the Dakota in the dark of night.  They strained their feathered necks to look down on the frantic scene below.  A mangled, bloody body lying on the pavement was surrounded by curious on lookers as flashing police cruisers began to arrive. The primped, multi-colored city bird turned to his white pigeon best friend.  
   
“What’s going on, luv?”  
   
“Some pudgy wanker that’s been lurking about our building just jaywalked into the big street traffic.  Barmy as a loon!  Arsehole got run over bloody hard by a taxi, stupid fuck.”  
   
“Is he dead?”  
   
“Nah, I see ‘im movin’ about a bit.  Squirming on the ground like a crushed worm.”  
   
“Eewww! That looks bloody awful.  Shit, if he lives, that arsehole’s gonna be a fucked up for life, a right vegetable.”  
   
“Yeah, not much left of him.”   
   
“Free will can be a bitch, huh?”  
   
“A right cunt, darling.”  The white pigeon cooed, with a slow wink.

 

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**_9\. Don’t be afraid of change_**  
   
 

 **Paris, September 1966**  
   
   
In the waning late afternoon sunshine, Neil stood at the reception desk of the posh hotel, tapping his fingers impatiently on the marble counter top, trying to get him and John fucking checked into their rooms for their brief weekend break.  Their train from Germany had arrived on time, and they’d be leaving for Spain for a long stretch of filming in just a couple of days.  Some relaxing down time was in order.  
   
“You desire two rooms, monsieur?”  
   
“Yes, two rooms. That’s what I bloody said.  Last week, I reserved all four suites on the penthouse floor. We need two of those suites now. Do ya understand? The name is Evans.”  
   
Shit, if Aspinall fucked up this hotel reservation somehow, Brian would throw a flailing tantrum. Bloody hell… his erratic boss would probably sack Neil’s arse, for the umpteenth time. Epstein’s fits were getting worse and more unpredictable recently… everyone had noticed. The now purposeless road manager looked nervously towards the glass doors of the fancy lobby, anticipating Brian’s hysterical flourish of an entrance at any moment.  
   
Just off the far corner of the gleaming hotel reception area, wearing a black corduroy blazer over a rumpled white dress shirt and dark jeans, John leaned on his bent elbows at the high polished bar.  Le Bar smelled of the faint wisp of cigars and it was pleasantly dark, sheathed in mahogany and pretentious tapestries—and completely fucking empty, save for an elderly couple at one of the far tables and the dumpy, grey-haired barkeep.  Perfect, John hummed, as he sipped slowly on a mellow single malt scotch.   
   
Raking his fingers through his curly quiff of soft locks, he was tired but relieved… no signing autographs, no smiling for snapshots, no answering daft press questions. Few fans should recognize him here in Paris, what with his newly shorn hair and wire specs.  No one other than Brian and Neil had really seen him since his recent Private Gripweed transformation.  Christ, Macca hadn’t seen him in person yet…  
   
Fuck.  Paul would be here soon, if his flight landed on time and they weren’t mucking about at the airport like courteous pansies, waiting for McCartney’s holiday dish of fanny to arrive. John’s nerves bristled with irritation and insecurity.   
   
 _“Why the fuck is Paul bringin’ that tart along?”_  
   
The quiet, soothing warmth of the deserted Parisian hotel bar gave John time to think, unfortunately. As hard as he tried to fight it, his whirling mind reflected back to that Boxing Day phone call again, and Paul’s tearful, heart-ripping confession.  Fuck, his imagination couldn’t let go of the nauseating picture of Paul and that twit Browne rolling around under the sheets. Especially not after seeing with his own feline eyes that Paul’s mouth was scarred from that bloody night, a permanent reminder every time John looked at his lover’s face or kissed Paul’s lips. An eternal memento of Paul’s brash, coke-fueled infidelity.  
   
No, John couldn’t forget, especially not after that creepy chat on the train with Stu’s transparent, floating head. Dead Sutcliffe was right. Paul had fucked up royally.  
   
And now this…   
   
Bringing his latest slag along, to Paris… their Paris.  John took another slow sip, letting the liquid heat trickle down his gullet, and lit a smoke.    
   
“S’all set, John.  I’ve sent our luggage to the rooms. We can go up to the suites whenever yer ready.”  
   
Neil pulled out the adjacent bar stool, plopping down his attractive bum on the high leather seat.  Under his heavy brow, he pointed to John’s drink, silently nodding his order at the old bartender.  In less than a minute, the two men were sharing scotches and smokes and increasingly uncomfortable banter.  The atmosphere was oddly uneasy… Neil and Lennon were Scouse mates going back practically to the beginning, after all. Why did this feel so peculiar?    
   
Shit.  
   
“So why do ya think Paul’s bringing along this bird, Nell?”  
   
John was never one to mince words, especially when his mind was clenched tight around an obsession.  
   
“Dunno, John.  For female company, s’ppose.”  Neil shrugged, not daring to look at his famous friend, wishing in his gut to the fucking powers almighty that he could disappear into his dear glass of smooth liquor.  
   
“Being a bit obvious about it.  I mean… shit, Nell… Janey bird’s gotta know what the fuck he’s doing with this skirt behind her back, right?”  
   
“Not sure if Jane’s suspects anything, John.  Paul’s a pretty cagey fucker.”  
   
John stared down into the rich amber beverage, swirling it around in his crystal centrifuge. Aspinall was right. Macca was one fucking wily bastard. Lennon was still right pissed off that Paul had never shown up in Germany like he had said he would, and that his lover had forgotten their anniversary. And now, to add insult to injury, Macca was coming here to Paris with bird baggage.  John sighed. He couldn’t take this much longer.  
   
Sod it all!  Paul’s affair with the leggy brunette wasn’t Lennon’s bloody problem. Not this time, anyroad.  
   
John blew out a cloud of smoke.  
   
Fucking hell. So what if bitchy, posh Jane discovered Paul’s cheating ways and chucked his arrogant arse out of her bed?  Not likely, but certainly possible.  
   
 _“Tara, Janey bird!”_  
   
John snorted silently into his glass tumbler.  
   
For no real reason, a wave of peaceful serenity enveloped Lennon, like a cloud of self-assurance.  He sighed deeply, and turned to Aspinall, John’s now thinner face brightened and dimpled by a broad smile.  The guitarist downed the rest of his drink and stood up suddenly, snarling with satisfaction.  
   
“Let’s head up then.”  
   
~~~  
   
Fidgeting and puffing with frustrated energy, Brian was anxious to get the fuck out of there.  He leaned back against the white tiled wall of the airport waiting room until he noticed the filthy surface rubbing grime against his dark blue suit jacket.  He lurched away from the wall, brushing furiously at his jacket sleeves.   
   
Christ, how much longer was this going to take? Paul’s holiday escort was supposed to be waiting for them, not the bloody other way around.  Brian needed a hot bath and a snifter of velvet smooth brandy… and the blowjob release that he had prearranged for this evening. This was Paris, the city of love; they needed to get to the fucking hotel! John and Aspinall would be there by now. Epstein reluctantly decided to inquire again, hissing under his breath.  Paul was in a bitchy way; Brian preferred to keep his distance from thorny Maccamoods, but the urge for an update compelled him.  
   
“Any word then, Paul?”  
   
“Yeah.  They’ve landed, finally!  She should be here shortly, Brian.  Ta for waiting.”  
   
“Of course, Paul. It’s my job to make sure that we all get to the hotel safely.  May I ask you a question though?”  
   
McCartney shuffled in his dark brown loafers, readjusting his slightly wrinkled, pale blue suit.  He recognized that particular Epstein tone. Fucking hell.  Paul squirmed, absently mindedly cupping and readjusting his lad package.  
   
“Hmm?” Feigning disinterest, McCartney casually curved his pliant lips around a smoke.  The airport lounge was cramped and stuffy and too fucking bright.  He pulled down a pair of round, colored sunglasses off his head and ran his twitching hand through his dark hair.  
   
“Why did you invite Miss McGivern along for this holiday?”  
   
Paul pretended not to hear for a few seconds, before pulling his orange-tinted specs down the short bridge of his perfect nose… and slowly lifting his heavy lids, fully aware of the control that his sultry weapons had over their manager.  
   
“It was necessary. Trust me.”  
   
“What does that mean?  Necessary?”  
   
“S’nothing, Brian. I know what I’m doing.  Just leave it, alright?”  
   
“The fact that you are flying a beautiful model to Paris when John traveled all the way from Germany, and he hasn’t seen you in weeks. Well, it is not  _nothing_ , Paul.”  
   
“For shit’s sake!”  Paul paused, weighing his options. He decided that the truth perfectly suited the situation.  “Listen, Brian. Jane’s suspicious.  She’s been hinting here and there that she knows about me and John. S’weird.  She’s not acting angry or anything, just saying bizarre shit, and it’s bloody freakin’ me out.”   
   
Paul exhaled, looking around the room, lowering his volume.  
   
“I’m pretty fuckin’ sure that she’s knows… something.  Ya know?”  
   
“This is serious, Paul.”  
   
“I fuckin’ know that!  That’s why I invited Maggie to join me, as cover. S’ides, she’s a great lay. And she really wants to fuck John. Should be a giggle for all of us, I figure.  Listen, it’s better that Jane question whether I’m runnin’ around behind her back with another girl than the alternative, yeah?”  
   
“Does John know that Miss Asher suspects, Paul?”  
   
“No, I haven’t said anythin’ to him. S’not his problem, ya know?  I can handle it.”  
   
“What a pity. Jane was perfect. The ideal Beatle girlfriend.”  
   
“She’s still bloody perfect, Brian!  She’s a great, smart, beautiful girl.”  Paul took another long inhale on his cig, letting the smoke roll off his lips as his spoke.    
   
“I’m gonna marry her.  Soon!  But if Jane distrusts me around John… ”  
   
“Paul, don’t be hasty, lad. You do not need to rush headlong into a marriage. Think this over for a while, will you? Let’s talk about this more later.”  
   
“John’s gotta a devoted wife and a beautiful son, Brian. He has a real home. Now Geo’s married, and Ritch and Mo have a kid as well. I want a family of me own.  S’natural and normal. That’s all.  John understands.  Trust me, will ya?”  
   
“Paulie bumpkins!”  
   
They both turned in time to see a beige-colored, slinky crocheted dress running towards them at full speed, high heels be damned.  
   
~~~  
   
It was fucking late, and John’s eyes were sore and tired, even though he wore his glasses most days now instead of those god-awful contacts.  Nice to see clearly without that annoying discomfort, he mused, as he shut his book closed and lifted off the barely perceptible weight of his round NHS specs. He thought about scooting his arse under the bed covers, but he felt just to bloody lazy to bother.  
   
The hotel suite was absurdly posh; it was if he were drowning in a sea of silk fabrics and useless pillows. Crystal sconces and a blur of swirling pastel colors and thousands of tawdry gold threads. Fucking French poofters. Fucking pompous Eppy! The garish rococo décor turned his unsettled stomach, so he flung his forearm over his eyes rather than get up to turn off the lamp.  
   
No sight or sound from Paul since their pissy exchange at that exclusive club earlier in the evening. Paul had sauntered into the impromptu party late, as usual, primped and already fucked dry no doubt, with the tall, lanky brunette dangling off his arm. He barely glanced at John, throwing a nonchalant nod and a smile hello in his direction before heading over to the bar. For most of the short evening, McCartney chatted animatedly with Brian over in a corner, oblivious to John’s boiling temper. In less time than it should have taken, Neil was forced to haul Lennon’s sloshed, ornery arse out of the club and back to their hotel.  
   
Another fucked up rendezvous with his prick of a secret lover; John winced and rubbed his eyes until they ached with flashing white dots.  
   
He thought back to that insane scene in the nightclub, with tipsy Maggie Mae shoving her tits in his face and running her painted fingers up the warm curve of John’s inner thigh, bitching about McCartney and his lack of attention towards her. Some of it was a blur, but he remembered most of it… his cruel rejection of Maggie’s shameless advances and her woeful crying horseshit. Then his hard crash into Paul’s shoulder during his stumbling exit, John’s arm draped over Aspinall’s ever present, supportive shoulder.  
   
“Oi, what the fuck!”  Paul spun in place at the bar and glared at his boyfriend and partner, lips parted in annoyance, brow furrowed.  
   
“Yer bird’s outta control, Macca.  Put her back in her cage, son.”  John’s pissed face was steel hardened and cold.  
   
“Shit… “ Paul looked over at Maggie, slumped over like a half-baked rag doll at a round table, waving coyly at him… and then Paul turned back to say something.  But John was gone.  
   
And now here Lennon was, hours later, not far from dawn, alone in a luxury hotel suite. A half bottle of red wine and a joint left over from the stash that Nell had slipped him earlier.   
   
He was completely fucking alone. In Paris.   
   
He couldn’t trust Paul anymore. He couldn’t trust anyone anymore. Not that he ever did, anyroad.  
   
A hard knock at the door jolted him with a start.  John grabbed for his glasses and got up slowly, gracefully padding his way towards the door, bare arms crossed defensively, eyes squinting with misgiving.  
   
“What?” He barked low at the back of the closed door.  
   
“S’me, John.”  
   
John closed his eyes for a moment and then opened the door leisurely.  Paul stood there in the hallway, still wearing his fancy pinstriped monkey suit, shoes and fucking tie and all.  He looked like shit, his eyes extra droopy and bloodshot, his goofy head cocked to one side.  Bit too many flutes of French champagne, John reckoned.  
   
“Lo John, luv.”  Paul could be a sappy seductress when he was a tad pissed from the bubbly.  
   
“S’late, Paul.  I’m knackered.  Go crawl under the covers with yer travel snatch.  Night.”  
   
“John, wait!  Listen, I know yer angry but don’t close the door, ok?  I just need to talk for a bit and then I’ll leave. Promise.”  Paul grinned and held his palm over his heart, slightly off balance.  He tried not to stare, but the sight of a leaner John standing there in navy boxers and a white sleeveless t-shirt took his breath away.  Shit, he looked like John used to look back in their Hamburg days, except for the round glasses and the Parisian penthouse kip. Finally, Paul coughed and gently pushed past, strolling over to the bed nightstand to nick a smoke, until he saw the joint.  
   
“I had reasons for bringing Maggie along with me, luv.”  McCartney mumbled as he sparked up the grass.  
   
Turning to face him, John lifted an eyebrow and recrossed his arms, relaxing the tension in his stance.  He lips were still pressed tight and thin, his jaw locked.  
   
“Mag’s fun. She’s an easy going chick, ya know. I planned to get us all together, if ya were interested in some three way playtime, that is.”  Paul’s lips smirked wickedly around the fat joint.  
   
“So why are ya here alone then, Macca?” John’s firm, monotonous tone didn’t vacillate.  
   
“She passed out, cold.”  
   
“So much for  _that_  fuckin’ plan.”  Again, John’s blank expression didn’t waver, as Paul let out a low chuckle and blew out a perfect smoke ring.  
   
“There’s always tomorrow, mate.  John, luv, I brought Maggie along to Paris with me mostly cause Jane’s actin’ suspicious.”  
   
John snorted, with a palpable whiff of aggravation.  
   
“Fuckin’ daft way to throw her off yer scent there, darlin’.”  
   
“What?  No, no.  She’s suspicious of  _us_ , John—at least, I think she is. S’not often, mind ya, but Jane’s been makin’ sly innuendoes lately. I think she saw us, or heard something. I fancied travelin’ to Paris alone, but I figured this would be better, considerin’.”  
   
“Christ, Paul! Janey bird suspects…  _us_?”  John’s mood shifted as he unclasped his folded arms; he was genuinely shit pissed concerned.  
   
“I think so.  She’s super bright; she notices things. Studies the way people behave.  She’s an actress, after all. That’s why I brought Maggie along, alright?”  
   
John walked up to his lover and slid the spliff out from between his full lips, taking a long drag, combing his hair with his fingers absentmindedly.  
   
“Fuckin’ hell, Paul. She’d better not say anythin’ to Cyn.”  
   
Paul moved closer, his voice lowered to a whisper. He brushed the back of his left hand across John’s cheek.  
   
“It’ll be fine, luv. I’ll take care of it.”  
   
Twisting his long, strong fingers in the full curls dangling over John’s forehead, Paul’s champagne infused humming quickly filled the space around them.  
   
“Mmm. I fuckin’ love yer haircut, Johnny.  S’different. Even better, somehow.”  
   
Shit, how John had missed the beautiful prat. Paul pulled him into his body with a gentle fist tug of amber locks, pressing his suit-clad groin into John’s hips.  
   
“I thought… ya were leavin’.”  John mumbled into Paul’s soft mouth.  
   
“Hmm, I’d rather stay.”  Paul moaned back, savoring the slight mint flavor of chewing gum that lingered on John’s tongue. He ran his fingers down the sides of John’s torso, cupping his palms around John’s waist.  As his traced his lips lightly up his lover’s stubbled neck, Paul scooted both of his warm hands under the waistband of John’s soft boxers, caressing and squeezing the firm roundness of his bum.  
   
“I’m… still pissed off… at ya…” John growled faintly, eye closed in pleasure, desperate for no particular reason to stay angry.  
   
Paul nibbled on John’s tender lobe, blowing warm air into his ear, as he ran his fingers up and down the contours of John’s hipbones. Then he shifted his hands under the front of his boyfriends’ boxers in order to draw circles with his thumb pads over the flesh of John’s abdomen, teasingly close to John’s swollen cock.  
   
“Yer a bastard—ya know that.” John’s body was surrendering against his weakened will.  
   
After running the tip of his tongue along the hard, smooth contours of John’s left ear, Paul pulled back and cooed very softly, eyes wanton with desire. “Johnny, make love to me. I’ve missed ya so fuckin’ much.”   
   
Still fully dressed in his suit, fucking shoes and all, Paul then ran both hands down John’s left arm, taking hold of John’s beautiful hand, leading him over to the posh bed as Paul walked backwards, his face flush and pleading.  
   
“Off! All of it.”  John ordered, as he suddenly pulled back to a stop and pointed up and down Paul’s body.   McCartney let go of John’s hand and tried to disguise his slight trembling with a low chuckle, but he struggled a bit more than expected trying to loosen his tie.  He’d been fantasizing about this Parisian holiday reunion ever since John had run away from London after the last tour… after John had abandoned  _him_ , to make some daft film that the bastard didn’t give a rat’s arse about anyroad.  Paul was a tad pissed too.  And fucking randy as an alley cat.  
   
~~~  
   
Three doors down the posh hotel hallway, a soft tap of light rhythmic knocks.  Brian smiled and rose from the winged armchair to answer his suite door in his satin dressing gown and embroidered cashmere socks. Before grabbing the ornate door handle, Epstein stopped in front of the antique foyer mirror and fiddled with his puffy cravat.  Finally, he opened the door with determination, only to find a petite, shorthaired blonde girl on the other side.  
   
“You must be Brian.  Hello, I’m Jeanne.  The agency sent me.”  
   
“Fuck!  Um, I’m… I’m afraid that there’s been a mistake, Jeanne.  I was expecting something… someone different.”  
   
“Oh, I see. Are you sure that I can’t tempt you, monsieur?  It’s very late. It would be hours before something  _different_  could be arranged for you tonight. I believe I can take very good care of your special request.”  
   
Brian imagined grabbing his own balls in frustration, practically feeling their aching, violet blueness through the sumptuous gown fabric.  
   
“Shit.  Well, perhaps. Please, come in.  Can I interest you in a cocktail?”  
   
~~~  
   
“John… oh god, John… shit, luv.” Paul squirmed and moaned on top of the squishy covers that draped the high poster bed.  With Macca stripped bare and glistening with sweat, John had already gone down on his boyfriend, swallowing him completely to the back of his throat, sucking and licking steadily and slowly.  The melodic, begging sound of his partner’s voice only caused John to mouth Macca’s beautiful prick just a bit harder.  Paul cried out louder.  
   
“Hush, baby.  Easy. Not too fast now.” John snorted low, before he engulfed Paul’s shaft again with his talented cheek muscles.  
   
“Fuck!”  Paul’s features were dripping, twisted in pleasure and capitulation.  Eyes closed, lips parted, panting with his fingers tangled in his own hair, he looked perfectly, utterly fuckable.  
   
John pulled off and leaned back on his heels, his glassy eyes dancing over the supple smoothness of Paul’s writhing body.  He lifted Paul legs up together, held snugly at the ankles, and draped his partner’s knees of jelly over his broad, freckled shoulders.   
   
“I love ya, Paul. Yer a bloody prick sometimes, but I love ya. ”  
   
“Mmm… love you, Johnny.”  
   
“I’m gonna fuck ya hard, baby.”  
   
“Bloody ‘ell… yes!  Punish me...”  
   
Paul shut his crinkled eyes tighter and curled his toes in anticipation, as John lubed up, stroking his length to steel.  Slowly John penetrated, inching in and pulling back out, Paul’s moans growing louder with each stroke.  Watching Paul’s face with every slow penetration, John eventually turned his head and chuckled into the inside crook of Paul’s knee; he fucking loved that he could make Macca let down his guard and scream out of control.  Gradually, as he raised his hips to meet John’s powerful thrusts, Paul felt the heat rising in his gut, tingling from his feet up the long length of his furry legs, until finally…  
   
“John, I can’t…  Ah, fuck… shit!  John!”  
   
Lennon could bloody feel the suite walls vibrate at Macca’s high tenor shout of ball-draining release.  Shit.  John was torn between savage lust and hilarity. Wrapped up in both emotions, he began to lose control and started laughing under his breath, while simultaneously emptying gallons of lad batter into Paul’s delicious bum. Well, it was only a tablespoon or two, but it felt like fucking gallons. Holy bloody hell!  As he filled his boyfriend’s hot tight arse, all John could hear and feel through his soaked skin was Paul’s ecstatic cry echo throughout the spacious, gaudy room.  
   
Then… without warning, a loud knocking on the door of John’s suite.  
   
“John!”  It was Brian, irritated and screeching like a bird.  “Be quiet in there!  There are other people on this floor trying to sleep!”  
   
Fuck.  John jerked out his thick shaft from Paul’s clenching tightness, eliciting an eyeball-popping gasp from his dark-haired boyfriend.  They immediately collapsed into an embrace of tender kisses and giggles and tickles.   
   
“Sod off, Eppy!”  John hollered playfully, far too loud for the late hour.  
   
Then, more fucking pounding on the suite door.  John sat up on one elbow, an eyebrow cocked at Paul in astonishment at Epstein’s bloody nerve.  Suddenly John sprang to his feet, stark naked, his stomach shiny from perspiration and a healthy coating of Macca juice, and strolled purposefully over to the door.  
   
“Don’t wanna be rude, eh?”  John smirked over his shoulder at Paul, who rolled over in the twisted bedcovers naked and spent, holding a luxurious pillow up to his face to muffle his hysterics. Macca got stupid giddy after a good, hard Lennon loving.  
   
Unexpectedly, John pulled door wide open, standing there in all his naked, fucked, shining glory… on full frontal display for their gasping, disheveled manager.  
   
“Jesus, John!  Shut the fuckin’ door!”  Paul squealed from the bed, grabbing the covers to shield his body.  
   
Leaning casually against the heavy doorframe, John barked with a hiss.  
   
“Yes, Brian?”        
   
Brian’s heavy-lidded, satisfied eyes zeroed in on Lennon’s lad-happy, drained baggage.  
   
“Um, right then. Keep the shagging noise down please.” Brian gestured at Lennon’s soft, retreating pecker with a flip of his wrist and smirked sarcastically.  
   
“You know—it’s odd, but I thought that I remembered more raw potential down there, John.” Epstein slowly walked away and down the hall, back towards his own poofy Parisian room.  
   
“Quite a bit more than  _that_ , actually.” Eppy laughed over his shoulder. John could have sworn that the queer fucker swaggered his hips in mockery as he sauntered down the hall.  
   
Back on the plush, soaked bed, Paul’s expression of open-mouthed shock mixed with mild disgust quickly melted into the gentle snickering of a devoted lover.  
   
“Shut the fuck up, Macca!”  John snorted, shutting the door and turning the lock with a click.  The threesome would have to wait until tomorrow.  
   
~~~  
   
Under the early evening shadows of the iron edifice, Maggie and Paul and John lay down on the pavement, exhausted… side by side on their backs, staring up into the lace underbelly of the Parisian architectural icon.  
   
“Are you sure we can’t go up to the top, Paulie?”  
   
“Sorry, luv. No, we can’t. Too much attention. It would get out of hand. But you can go. We’ll wait for ya.”  
   
“No, that’s alright.  This is fine.”  
   
 _“Fuckin’ son of a bitch—goddamn bloody rotten shit rubbish!”_  
   
John sighed in frustration, barely containing his ludicrous string of silent profanities.  
   
“I don’t want ya to miss the Eifel Tower, Maggie.  Go up then and see the view.  We’ll wait here.”  Paul was trying, at least… with his usually persuasive, husky whisper and long, feathery lashes.  
   
“No, I’m fine.  I’d rather stay here with you two. This is just lovely, Paulie.  Just lovely.  Isn’t it lovely, John?”  
   
Paul reached over and clasped John’s tense hand, giving him a gentle squeeze and an affectionate rub of his shoulder. John turned to look at Paul and rolled his eyes with a vicious sneer. Acknowledging John’s exasperation, Paul simply nodded with his full-cheeked grin of affection.  
   
 _“I love you, forever.”_   He promised John, without making a sound.  
   
   
~~~~~~~  
   
   
 **Scotland, May 1985**  
   
   
Standing at the foot of the bed, Paul pulled his black T-shirt on over his head, looking back at his slumbering lover dozing away on the lumpy mattress at the charming bed and breakfast. Curled up on his side, John’s left arm was pulled up under his body, his left hand rounded in a ball under his neck like a kipping child. His sharp features were blissfully relaxed and serene.  Paul sighed; he loved to watch John sleep.  
   
They were together… openly… publicly… finally.   
   
Paul pulled back the curtain slightly to peek outside. It seemed a beautiful late spring morning; time to get dressed, find some breakfast and start another glorious day. Shit, Paul was happier than he’d ever been in his entire fucking life.  John was here. John was beautiful.  Everything was beautiful.  They could holiday at a delightfully quaint bed and breakfast in the remote Highlands, together. No fuss, no outlandish horseshit.  
   
Certainly the hospitable proprietors of the cozy, isolated lodging had no idea that he and John were on the edge of that precipice, again poised to fucking fall over at a whisper’s breath.  The album would be released next week. On Tuesday… this coming fucking Tuesday.  It was like watching a raging green-black tempest off in the distance, the awe and the excitement and the blinding terror.   
   
It was their first record as a duo… as a couple… with cartloads of mates and talented younger musicians jamming their arses off with them.  Course there had always been Lennon and McCartney and the songwriting credits. But this new fucking album was actually fucking titled Lennon/McCartney, a loving picture of them together gracing the cover!  Shit. Paul got that uneasy taste of bile in the back of his throat. His nerves were grating on him again.  
   
He forced his stomach to calm down, and smiled. Christ, it seemed that everyone came out of the fucking rock and roll woodwork to support them. Even Geo and Ritch had stayed with them at that rented Long Island beach house and quasi-studio for an extended holiday. It had been fun. Really fun, in fact. Swimming, mucking about on the beach, playing with the kids, writing and recording, but was it any fucking good?  Were they still relevant? Paul didn’t give a flying fuck anymore if bigots mocked their queerness. He just needed their music to be fucking fantastic.   
   
It had to be.  
   
These songs, like hundreds before, were his and John’s children…  _their_  babies.  But these were different; they were different, and yet they weren’t really.  
   
Fuck.  
   
Paul needed to empty his bladder.  As he scratched his balls through his white skivvies, he envied the way John could just bloody sleep through anything.  Sod it. He shook off the last clinging drops of piss, pulled up his briefs and decided to crawl back in bed, scooting his bum under the covers, spooning his gorgeous boyfriend-partner-lover-whatever-John biscuit.  
   
He snuggled and nuzzled and daydreamed of the future, imagining a world of possibilities with John.  
   
 _“Stop!”_   Paul chided himself, silently.  Stop wanting more, ya greedy fuck.   Stop thinking that this is perfectly good and normal and forever. Day by day, fucking minute by minute… that’s all there is.  
   
A gentle knock on their bedroom door roused John from his sleep.  
   
“What’s that?”  John murmured into his pillow.  
   
“Dunno.”  Paul got up, quickly pulling on his jeans, and walked over to the door, opening it a crack.  
   
“A homemade, hearty breakfast on this bonnie morning. You two should go for a walk in the hills… go see Nessie, don’t you think?  I’ll pack a picnic poke for you.”  The elderly woman offered the tray laden with steaming food and tea, smiled and winked and walked away.   
   
“Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.” Paul chuckled softly, as he carried the heavy wooden platter with both hands, shutting the bedroom door with his bare foot. The sweet old thing reminded Paul of his aunties back in Liverpool.  
   
“That smells bloody fantastic.”  John mumbled into the pillow, still refusing to open his eyes and lift his head.  
   
“Come ‘ead… get up, you nit.  Brekkie and then a hike, just the two of us, yeah?”  
   
~~~  
   
“Will ya slow down, McCartney!  I can’t fuckin’ keep up with ya, for shit’s sake.”  
   
“I told ya to walk in front of me, John.  C’mon, get up here. You set the bloody pace then!”  
   
They were trekking through the sparse woodlands in the area near Loch Ness.  Fond, naughty memories of the past and those early Silver Beatles tours through Scotland. Extending his arm, Paul hollered down at his partner, who was scampering and swearing up the slippery side of another muddy, mossy slope.  
   
“The only… bloody enjoyable… part of this hiking idea of yers… is watching yer delicious bum swing back and forth… from behind!”  John gasped in frustration, as he awkwardly pulled himself up the embankment, grasping Paul’s hand for leverage.  
   
“That’s the only thing yer enjoying, John?”  
   
“Well, there’s yer shoulders, and yer arms, and those legs… the whole Maccapackage.  Yeah, I prefer the fucking rear view, darling.”  
   
Paul chuckled, shaking his head and readjusting his hiking pack.  “We’re nearly there, luv.  This is good for ya. Can’t live in yer barmy head twenty-four seven, John.  Yer not dying young on me from some heart attack or something cause ya refused to move yer sweet, lazy arse! Now, c’mon.”  
   
“Oi, wait one fucking minute, McCartney… I swim laps nearly every damn day when we’re home.”  
   
“Perfect!  You can jump in the loch and go for a dip with Nessie!”  Paul hollered back over his shoulder, already a few yards ahead.  
   
John made a spastic face and shot Paul a two-finger salute behind his back.  
   
“I saw that, ya know.  Eyes in the back of me head there, Johnny.”  
   
John flashed a double salute, with a wicked Cheshire cat smirk splashed across his content face.  
   
~~~  
   
“Shit, that was bloody tasty.”  
   
“Are ya referring to our picnic lunch or me?”  
   
“Mmm… both. You more, though.”  John snorted, eyes closed.  
   
Sprawled out on the rich green grass near the edge overlooking the loch, John had his head of shoulder-length curls resting comfortably in Paul’s lap. Paul’s unfocused, heavy eyes looked leisurely at the dark water, still glazed over from the unexpected, batter-draining blowjob. He took a sip of wine and another long toke off the joint.  It was so peaceful and quiet… thank bloody hell that they’d escaped London and all the album pre-release media nonsense. The record company suits were pissed off that the two refused to hold a press conference or appear on telly and radio shows, but fuck ‘em.  John was right. They didn’t need to perform like circus monkeys in front of flashing cameras and arsehole press twits any longer.  
   
Still, Paul’s brain was clouded with anxiety, fraught with shit that had nothing to do with new album—something he’d been imagining since they had gotten back together.  Was he ever gonna have the fucking balls to bring it up with John?  Probably not, Paul reckoned. Fuck.  
   
“Ya know that we’re gonna have to do  _some_  publicity shit for the album, right luv?”  
   
“Like fuckin’ what?”  John had opened his eyes, his lips tightened with worry.  
   
“I dunno. A magazine interview, maybe.  And we’ll have to play.  You know, concerts and such.”  
   
“I’m not fucking touring, Paul.”  
   
“I didn’t say tour, did I?  Just a couple of gigs, that’s all.”  
   
“I’m not fucking touring, Paul.”  
   
“I ‘eard ya!  Jesus, John… no touring, all right?”  
   
“Bullocks!  Yer not givin’ up that easy, Macca.  I  _know_  you, inside and out, darling.”  
   
“Well, what if tourin’ s’not what I really want, anyroad. Hmm?”    
   
Shit, why the hell did he just blurt  _that_ out!  
   
“What  _do_  ya want, Paul?”  John’s tone was dripping with snarky resignation.  
   
“It’s batshit crazy, alright.  Never mind.”  
   
“I swear yer a bloody bird sometimes, Paul.  What the fuck is it?  Don’t make me tickle it out of ya.”  
   
“Just drop it, John!”  
   
“Testy there, mate.  Must be some important shit, yeah?”  
   
“I want another baby.”   
   
There, he fucking said it.   
   
Finally.   
   
Shit.   
   
Even the bloody real feathered birds seemed to stop their incessant tweeting after hearing Paul’s outrageous confession.  Cor, even Nessie was stunned—and it takes a fucking lot to shock the lake snake.  
   
“What?”  John opened his eyes wide behind his lenses, stunned. “Another kid?  Haven’t ya procreated enough, Macca?”  
   
“I want a baby with you.”  
   
John covered his glasses with his forearm, snorting.  “Um, Paul darling... ya’ve spent the better part of yer life burrowin’ yer perfect snout into me crotch.  Have ya ever found a fucking uterus down there?”  
   
“Well, we’ll need a willing, brilliant, worthy mother obviously, John.”  
   
“Bloody hell, Paul.  All right, I’ll fucking go on tour.  A short fucking tour, mind ya!  But I’ll do it, if that’s what ya want.”  
   
“I’m serious, John. No touring, just a baby. I’ve been talking to someone lately.  Rang her up just the other day. She said she’d help us out, ya know? Said she’d be delighted, in fact.”  
   
John suddenly sat up, practically nutting Paul in the head.  His lips were parted in disbelief.  
   
“Who?”  John feared the worst.  Fuck, he was gonna lose Paul again, wasn’t he?  
   
Paul reached over and ran his fingers through John’s reddish auburn hair.  
   
“Jane.”  
   
John just stared at him, as if the wind had been punched right out of his gut. “Yer tellin’ me that ya want have a kid with Janey bird.  Fuckin’ bloody hell, Paul.”  John spit the words out like bitter poison, and started to get up before Paul grabbed him by the shoulder, firmly pushing him back down.  
   
“No, John. Not me. I want  _you_  to make a baby with Janey bird.  Our baby.  I’ve got a plan.”  
   
Fuck.

 

  
 


	32. Chapter 32

 

**THE CONTRACT**

_1\. No snogging other blokes, ever_  
   
 _2\. Lock the fucking door, always_  
   
 _3\. Don’t tell anyone, no matter what_  
   
 _4\. Trust each other_  
   
 _5\. Listen to our mates_  
   
 _6\. Don’t be a jealous prick_  
   
 _7\. Jump down the fucking rabbit hole_  
   
 _8\. Tell each other the truth_  
   
 _9\. Don’t be afraid of change_

 _10\. Don’t give up, ever_  
   
   
   
 **Sussex, 9 September 1988**  
   
   
Lennon had been awake for close to six fucking hours; domestic bum loving bliss hadn’t completely cured his chronic struggles with insomnia. Lost in his thoughts as he gazed out the bay window to the gardens below, John nearly jumped out of his skin when the peaceful morning silence was suddenly interrupted.  
   
“Looks like a lovely day. Hmm, Johnny?”  
   
With his knees drawn up to his chest, John quickly relaxed at the melodic sound of Paul’s lilt drifting over from their bed.  He turned slowly from his window seat perch, inhaling the vision of Macca rubbing his eyes and scratching his squishy ball sack through his silk shorts. Lazily, McCartney sat up on the mattress.  His gray-streaked charcoal hair was matted to one side of his head, his soft lips and heavy eyelids were swollen from sex and sleep, his dark facial stubble fully sprouted thick overnight.   
   
Fucking bloody gorgeous.  
   
Macca was right, John mused, as the older man turned to look out again at the sunshine. It was a beautiful start to the day… perfectly crisp, late summer weather for this mad garden party that Paul had decided to throw to mark their once private anniversary of thirty years since that first kiss.  It would be a festive celebration with their mates and a few amusing industry types.  Gentle Mal wouldn’t be there though, nor would crazy Moonie, John realized.  They’d fucking lost too many mates over the years.  
   
John turned back again to look at Paul’s drowsy, disheveled perfection.  
   
“Good mornin’.”  Paul groaned with a groggy yawn, stretching his arms above his head, unfurling the black fur bunnies of his armpits.  
   
Today would be the first major social event that they’d ever hosted as a couple, with invited guests that were decidedly outside of their comfortable circle of close, supportive friends.  
   
And, bloody hell, there’d also be some family members attending the soiree. Dozens of cheerful, pint-clinking McCartneys, no doubt.  
   
And there would be Mimi, armed with her crooked, sturdy walking cane.   
   
Fuck.  
   
John smirked, his reflection in the window glass revealing something that clearly resembled affection, flavored with fond recollections of the past… memories of everything that he and Paul survived, apart and together.   
   
Everything that they’d endured to get here,   
   
To get to this moment.  
   
John sighed and got up from the window seat, crawling on all fours onto the mattress covers, settling in between Paul’s outstretched, hairy legs.  
   
“S’beautiful day.  Happy anniversary, baby.”  With beams of sunlight reflecting off the highlights in his shorter auburn hair, John kissed Paul on the apple of his cheek before pulling back to savor the show that was the morning Macca mess.  
   
“Happy anniversary, luv.” Paul leaned over and pecked a lingering kiss on the tip of John’s nose. McCartney sat back and chortled softly as he scrubbed his shadowed face hard, kneading his skin into a swirling pattern of swells and creases.  
   
“Cor, I can’t believe we’re doing this!”  
   
“Gettin’ cold feet then, are ya?  We can cancel the whole fuckin’ thing s’far as I’m concerned, darlin’.  S’fine by me.”  John chuckled, rolling over on his back, with pangs of restless doubt barely concealed behind his smile.  
   
“I’m fine, John.  It’ll be good, ok?  Trust me. Did the caterers or the florists arrive yet?  What time is it anyroad?”  
   
Fully alert in nearly an instant, Paul’s big, blinking eyes darted around their master bedroom for a clock, until his brain caught up with his nerves and he remembered its regular spot on his nearby nightstand.  As he sprang out of bed in his boxers, Paul shrieked.  
   
”It’s eight o’clock already!”   
   
“Paul, the shindig doesn’t even start until half four. Calm the fuck down, alright?”  
   
“Christ, John!  There’s a shitload to get done before the party starts.” And then Paul was gone in a blur, grey t-shirt and faded jeans pulled on in haste, bare feet scampering down the long stairway to the main floor.  
   
“Bloody bird.”  John chuckled, burying his scruffy face in Paul’s Maccascented pillow.  Within minutes, he floated off to sleep atop the bed covers, loosely wrapped in his dressing gown.  
   
~~~  
   
“’Lo, Paul.”  
   
Standing there uncomfortably in a pressed navy suit, the younger McCartney shifted his feet back and forth in the foyer of their well-guarded, country estate.  The house always seemed too cavernous for two blokes, but they needed the extra space sometimes, Mike reckoned… a half a dozen kids staying with them for holidays and all. Course Mike had nearly as many kids, and he didn’t live in a bloody, gated mansion. But he wasn’t a ‘former Beatle’ either, and the Sussex estate was at least safe, he figured. A secure refuge from the unpredictable mayhem and bigotry always lurking outside.  
   
“Morning, Mike. How’ve ya been?  Wife and the kids well?” Still dressed in the casual clothes that he’d thrown on just less than an hour ago, Paul gestured to his brother to follow him inside.  
   
“Yeah, they’re smashing. Today’s a big day, eh?”  Mike took a deep breath and turned to the side for a moment, swallowing the lump of emotion stuck in his throat.  “Paul, I know yer busy and all, but do ya ‘ave a moment then… to talk privately?”  
   
“Sure.  C’mon into the kitchen.  Kettle’s on.”  
   
After the brothers sat down at one end of the long, farm-style table with steaming cuppas, Mike sighed and pulled out a folded envelope from his inside jacket pocket, placing it on the wooden surface.  
   
“Paul, I found this when I was going through more of da’s old boxes of photos and sheet music. Seems he intended this for you but never got round to giving it to ya before he passed.  I didn’t open it or anything, but well… it feels important.”  
   
Paul looked at the white envelope for a few moments, as it rested innocently there on the table. After mindlessly scratching his morning beard, Paul reached his left hand out and picked it up, seeing his name scrawled in his father’s handwriting, gently squeezing the contents with his fingertips, realizing almost instantly what was likely inside.  
   
“I’m gonna step outside. Alone, ok?”   
   
Passing by the controlled chaos of the caterers noisily setting up chairs and hanging strings of outdoor lights, Paul marched over to the far corner of the south lawn and sat on the wrought iron bench that they’d placed under an old horse chestnut tree.  
   
Carefully, he ripped open the envelope and pulled out the folded, handwritten letter, his eyes catching a glimmer of the shiny metal that still lay inside the paper holder, cradled in the sharp crease.  As he unfolded the note, Paul relaxed against the seat back and took a deep breath.  
   
   
 _December 1975_  
   
 _My dear Paul,_  
   
 _I found your chain at Ginnie’s after that motorbike accident of yours years ago. I always knew about you and John after that day.  Honestly, I knew you were more than mates much earlier, but the inscription on the back confirmed what I suspected in my heart. I was never ashamed of you, or your feelings for John. I was just worried that you’d get hurt, and I’m so sorry that it ended so terribly between you and John.  It’s so hard to watch your child suffer such pain._  
   
 _I don’t know why I didn’t give this back to you earlier.  I suppose I wasn’t ready to talk about the things that went on between you and John.  I’m a cowardly wretch of a father. Please forgive me._  
   
 _I love you and I’m forever proud of you,_  
 _Dad_  
   
   
Realizing that he’d stopped breathing for a few moments, Paul inhaled like a drowning man, the air ripping like knives through his shaking body. He lifted out the silver ID bracelet; Paul had thought it was lost forever, and now here it was in his hand, a gift once again.  As tears welled up in his eyes, he wrapped the strong chain around his left wrist and closed the clasp.  The simple token of John’s young passion would now forever also remind Paul of the unconditional love of his father.   
   
His dad’s acceptance of all the bits and pieces of him, even the poof ones.  
   
“Paul, I’m sorry to bother ya, but there’s a delivery and the carrier says you have to sign for it.”  
   
Paul chuckled and turned, streams of tears running down his round cheeks, his left wrist flashing the bracelet in front of his younger brother.  
   
“The delivery blokes always say that, Mike.”  Paul looked down again, touching the silver links with his fingers, lowering his voice to a raspy whisper.  “Dad found me ID bracelet at Auntie Gin’s years ago. It was from John—a birthday present he gave me back when I turned twenty-one.”  Paul paused and wiped his eyes on the loose collar of his faded t-shirt.  
   
“Dad knew about John and me, Mike.  He knew about us, and he didn’t go barmy or disown me or hate me for it.”  
   
“Yeah, I always figured that he knew, and that dad was all right with it.”  After a second or so to recover, Mike lowered his voice in jest, with a twinkle in his eye.  “I think everybody knew about you and John, Paul.  _‘He slipped and fell in the bath, Mikey!’_   Bloody rubbish, he did! Yer were always a terrible shit liar, Paul.”  
   
Paul stood up and wrapped his arms around his younger, larger brother, squeezing tightly.  
   
“Thanks, Michael.  Really. Ta for everything, all right.”  Paul pulled back and laughed, patting his brother on the shoulder, nodding towards the house.  “Let’s go see what this surprise delivery s’all about.”  
   
~~~  
   
Another hour later, and Mike was squirming excitedly at the kitchen table in his suit, minus the restrictive jacket.  
   
“Ya sure ya don’t wanna open it, Paul?  Aren’t ya dying to see what it is?”  Mike whined.  
   
“Shit, ya never change, do ya?  Yer still the same impatient, bellyaching twat ya always were, Mike. Listen, I’m waiting for John to wake up, ok?  It’s addressed to both of us. I’m gonna wait.”  
   
“Yeah, but it’s from Germany, Paul!”  
   
“What’s from Germany?”  John mumbled as his strolled into their large, bright kitchen. He’d gotten dressed, sort of… in loose, dark pajama bottoms and white undershirt.  In his right arm he cradled her protectively, nuzzling his nose playfully in her thick, curly locks.  
   
“Look who I found wide awake… and hungry as a little bear cub, Papa Mac.”  She giggled at John’s silly voice and his tummy tickles, grinning ear to ear.  She had Lennon’s electric smile, and his piercing brown eyes. And that silky copper hair—a lighter color than his though, and more red.  
   
Paul strode over, wrapping one hand around the curve of John’s lower back, the other gently combing knots out of his daughter’s messy nest of locks, resting his forehead against the sweet fragrance of their miracle baby.  Jane had voluntarily signed away her legal rights, with Paul and John’s assurance that she’d always be a major part of their girl’s life.  She and her husband trusted them to honor their promise.  Well, Janey bird trusted Paul’s cheating arse far less, but not enough to really worry her.  Randy bastard.  
   
“Lo, John.  And how’s my little niece?”  Mike flashed a goofy face and waved at the child sandwiched gleefully between her fathers.   At the sight of her spastic uncle’s gesture, the toddler looked away, bawling in tears.  
   
“She’s famished, ya daft twit! Make yerself useful there, Mikey, and grab that cereal out of the cupboard, will ya.  Better yet, lend us a hand and feed her breakfast, mate.”  John ordered, walking over and carefully passing his peckish, nearly two-year-old daughter to her McCartney uncle.  Turning back to Paul, rubbing his hands together, John cackled.  
   
“Let’s open the Kraut pressie, shall we?”  
   
Without waiting for an answer, Lennon hastily ripped off the brown packing paper from the square frame, his partner standing to the side behind him, peering over John’s shoulder.  It was upside down, the unadorned back of the picture facing up, a note taped to the reverse.  It was from Astrid. She’d sent her regrets for not being able to attend the party.  They were in her thoughts, she reassured with affection.  John passed Astrid’s card back to Paul, and turned the frame over; together they gasped in unison at the image.   
   
It was a stunning black and white photograph of Astrid’s from back in the early Hamburg days.  She had captured the two of them in some dim German alley, snogging heavily. Leather-clad birthday boy Lennon had pushed Paul’s lithe eighteen-year old body up against a grotty brick wall.  Their arms and legs were deliciously tangled.  She had secretly photographed them. Madly in love and consumed with lad lust.  
   
Fuck.  Astrid knew about them way back then?  
   
“Do I see our next album cover there, darling?”  Paul snickered, though Lennon recognized the undercurrent of that tone… Macca was dead fucking serious. He turned and shot Paul his ‘no fucking way’ glare.  From the throne of her highchair, the toddler tossed her curls back and laughed with a squeal, throwing a handful of milk-soaked toasted cereal circles in her uncle Mike’s face.  
   
As John leaned in, grabbing Paul by a fistful of his cotton shirt, kissing him hard on his pouty, smirking mouth, a gaggle of pajama-clad kids started streaming into the kitchen, demanding food and attention and love.  
   
There seemed plenty to go around.  
   
Then John caught sight of the metal sparkle on Paul’s left wrist.  
   
“Yer bracelet!  Shit, where’d ya fuckin’ find it, luv?”  John’s face was frozen in disbelief, as he spoke into Paul’s ear with a hushed whisper.  
   
Paul pushed back, his eyes shiny and watery. “I just got it back. I tell ya the story when we’re alone, alright?  Time to feed our starving clan.”  
   
~~~  
   
   
As the afternoon sun began to set, the younger kids were entertaining themselves at the party just fine, rolling down the slope of the grassy hill, crashing into one other in hysterics.  Drinks were flowing and the party lights were lit.  Recorded rock and blues music wafted through the air, and pleasant banter filled the few empty spaces in the cheerful, tipsy crowd.   
   
There must have been over a hundred bloody people there. A fuckload more than John had expected.  He was happy, but a bit weary from all the smiling and shaking hands, and other assorted socializing horseshit.  He gradually wandered over to the back door of the house and ducked inside, making his way to their cozy library—his familiar sanctuary these days.  
   
Lennon stood by the window, sneaking another smoke; he was supposed to be quitting, but getting off smack had been easier, for fuck’s sake.  As he watched the guests maneuver about their back lawn, John smirked when he spotted his partner chatting up a group near the bar.  Paul had primped himself up nicely for the bash… in black tails and a white turtleneck jumper over tight blue jeans.  Macca’s arse look fuckin’ scrumptious, John thought, as he sipped on his drink.  
   
 _“She’s not coming, is she?”_  
   
Recognizing the familiar voice, John spun around, and saw transparent, twenty-one year old Stu sitting in that pretentious leather armchair of Macca’s over in the corner. Sutcliffe’s legs were crossed, his fingers interlaced under his chin.  Sorrow filled the air around him.  
   
“No, she’s not.  Astrid sent her regrets, Stuart.  I’m sure she would have made the trip if she knew yer phantom arse was making another ghoulish appearance, but she hasn’t been feeling well lately.”  John looked down at the tips of his cowboy boots, trying to muster some strength for this.  He fought back the bittersweet ache wrenching his gut, biting down hard on his lower lip.  
   
 _“I’ve been waiting for her, John.”_  
   
“Yeah, I know.  I figured as much since ya’ve mucked about for so long now.  Wasn’t just to see me pretty face, right?”  John paused and his breath hitched slightly.  “Stuart, she’s never stopped loving yer filthy Scouse arse.”  
   
 _“Ya really believe that, John?”_  
   
“I know it, Stu darling. She’s hasn’t found anyone else, has she. Not really.  Her heart still belongs to you.”  
   
 _“John?”_  
   
“Hmm?”  John inhaled another long sip and ground out his cigarette.  
   
 _“Ya made the right choice, ya know.  Free will and all... with a stiff shove in the right direction when ya needed it.”_  
   
John bit anxiously on the inside of his cheek.  
   
“Thanks, mate.”  
   
 _“S’nothing ya wouldn’t have done for me, expect for maybe the gnome gag._  
   
“Bullocks, I would ‘ave made ‘arrison chuck up and piss in his trousers!”  
   
Stu chuckled, his ethereal glow starting to pale.  
   
 _“John. Be happy, ok?  I’ve got a fuckload invested in this barmy shit between you and prickhead McCartney.”_  
   
“If the baby had been a boy, we were gonna name him Stuey.”  
   
 _“That’s a load of fuckin’ rubbish, Lennon.”_  
   
John chuckled into his glass, and then looked back up as Sutcliffe’s distinct, sweet laughter quickly faded from the room.   
   
And without another sound, spooky ghost Stu was gone.   
   
John never saw his old mate again, not in this life anyroad.  
   
~~~  
   
“Oh, Paul!”  
   
At hearing that distinctive shrill of her voice, Paul froze in his tracks, their sleeping child slung carefully over his left shoulder.  
   
Fuck, no.   
   
McCartney had managed to avoid any prolonged, uncomfortable conversation with her so far.  Shit.  He winced and blinked, as he slowly turned around to face her.  
   
“Mimi.”  Paul nodded politely, with a plastic, anxious smile, rubbing his daughter’s back to calm his nerves.  
   
Bloody hell, the old bint was pissed.  Not too bad yet, mind ya, but wobbling and swaying just a bit.  Good thing she had that weapon of a cane.  
   
“Paul, dear.”  Uncharacteristically, she wrapped an arm around his kid-free shoulder, slurring slightly into his ear. Mimi was having a right good time at this party.   
   
“I want to tell you something, Paul. I had my reservations about you from the beginning. I didn’t care for you at all, actually.  Much too brash and common for my John, you know.  But you, Paul… I must say that  _you_  are my favorite of all John’s wives!”  
   
Oh, fuck.  Paul searched her daft expression for some hint of a joke, but Mimi just smiled kindly.  Paul smiled back rather awkwardly and mumbled thanks, before spotting a diversion.  
   
“George!”  C’mere, luv!  Have ya said hello to John’s auntie, yet?”  
   
“Why, no.  Hello, Mrs. Smith.”  
   
Mimi lifted her head and smiled with a wink. “Would you like to dance, George?  I want to dance.  Dance with me, George!”  
   
The grey-haired gentleman, clad smartly in a dapper, double-breasted suit, raised a knowing, annoyed eyebrow at Paul, and then took Mimi’s boney leather hand, leading her antique frame over to the dance floor.  Martyr George Martin to the rescue, again.  
   
 _“Close escape, that one!  I owe ya, George.”_   Paul sighed and turned around to make a much-needed beeline for the bar, when he saw her walking towards him, as beautiful as ever.  
   
“We’ll be leaving now, Paul. We’ve got to get home to tuck the children in to bed.  Lovely party.”  Dressed in a sparkly, clinging vermillion dress that complemented her figure and her scarlet hair, Jane placed a hand gently on the sleeping toddler’s back and patted circles of affection up and down her tiny spine.  
   
“Thanks for coming, Jane.  It means a lot to us, ya know.”  
   
She just smiled at McCartney knowingly, and pecked him lightly on his chipmunk cheek.  
   
“I left my present for your anniversary on the table in the parlor with the other gifts.  Save it for later, when you and John are alone.  It’s special.”  
   
Paul arched an eyebrow in curiosity.  “Something naughty then?”  
   
She smiled and turned and walked away, back to her devoted, faithful husband and her happy, normal life—when she suddenly stopped and turned around, some five yards away or so.  
   
“Just a few old, silly memories from that Greek holiday. And that’s the only copy, so keep it safe!”  She laughed and blew him a kiss goodbye.  “Say goodbye to John for us.  Oh, and make sure he knows that present’s from me, yes?”  
   
“That’ll be the best part, luv.”  
   
“Oh, I seriously doubt that, Paul.  But do fill me in on all the salacious details of your private home movie screening when I see you next month.”  
   
Paul shook his head with a snicker and winked at his former fiancée, squeezing his redheaded baby daughter with a possessive, loving embrace.  
   
~~~  
   
Her arthritic limbs were loosened up very nicely from her impromptu foxtrot with dashing George Martin, and from another hearty goblet of expensive French wine.  And then, to her right at the buffet table, she spotted two long, nicotine-stained fingers stick themselves into the icing, scooping up a mouthful of the sweet, creamy confection.  
   
“Get your dirty paws away from the cake, you vulgar barbarian!”  
   
Mimi hurled her heavy purse into his kidneys, knocking the wind out of his slight frame.  
   
“Bloody fucking hell!”  Jagger bent over, leaning on the low table, wincing with sharp pain.  
   
 _“You scold him, old girl!”_  
   
Watching Mimi’s outrageous abuse of the Stones’ front man from a safe distance, Paul chuckled silently as he sipped on champagne, until a soft voice interrupted his amused reverie.  
   
“And so who do have we here, Paul?  I’ve heard so much from John about your precious child, but I’ve never had the honor of a formal introduction.”  Paul turned back towards Elton, smiling proudly as he held the sleeping bundle, snuggling with her stuffed Nessie toy.  He turned around gently, showing off the placid, angelic face of their dozing toddler drooling on his tux jacket, as any proud papa would for a friend.  
   
“Well then, Reggie, lemme introduce you to our baby girl, Miss Jennifer Jane McCartney-Lennon.  She’ll be two next month.”  Paul gingerly kissed the back of her head, desperate not to wake her up again, his nostrils drinking in the fresh scent of baby shampoo.  Instinctively, McCartney hugged her tighter and readjusted the soft pink blanket over her slumbering shoulders.  
   
“She’s absolutely perfect, Paul.”  The pianist cooed and giggled, as others starting mulling about to get a closer glimpse of John and Paul’s flush-cheeked love cherub.  
   
And then, out of the corner of his left eye, Paul fucking saw him.  
   
What was he doing here? At their home?  John certainly wouldn’t have invited the cunt.  
   
“Jules, luv… hold yer baby sister for a few minutes for me, alright?  I need to speak to someone. I’ll be right back.”  Paul’s mind was already several steps ahead of his feet.  From the sound of Paul’s razor sharp voice, Julian knew this had to be serious, and quickly shouldered the weight of the dozing toddler.  
   
“I’ll watch over Jenny, Paul.  Not a problem.”   
   
Paul looked at his twenty-four year old stepson, all grown now but still so tender, and winked with buckets of adoration. If anyone could be described as joyful over this queer love arrangement, it was sensitive, soulful Julian.  He had his father back again in his life, permanently. Usually sober and genuinely attentive.  And, just as important, Jules had his devoted Uncle Paul there for support, whenever dear old dad invariably but unintentionally fucked things up.   
   
“Everything ok, Paul?”  Elton frowned, confused by the sudden dark shift in McCartney’s temper.  
   
Before anyone could question him further, Paul marched off in the direction of the small formal garden on the side of the estate, his tux tails flapping in the breeze, his perfect jaw clenched in determination.  
   
And blinding, hot anger.   
   
Fuck.   
   
Paul balled his fists against his sides, trying to cling to some semblance of control. John had told him about the incident—about the fucking drugging and the rape—on that first New Year’s after they’d gotten back together in Scotland.  After several verses of Auld Lang Syne at the cottage piano that evening, some hazy, buried Lennon memories resurfaced. They were alone, in bed, when John told him what he could recall through the blur of time and chemicals. As John’s words filtered into his brain, Paul’s heart ripped apart, knowing that he’d watched John being violated with his own eyes, and had done absolutely fucking nothing to stop it.  That knowledge would haunt him forever.  But just maybe, it would hurt a tad less after this confrontation.  
   
Paul was a fucking cobra when defending his loved ones, when it came to protecting John… he was mesmerizing and patient and lethal. This fucker’s professional downfall had been in the works for years, with McCartney pulling all the strings behind the scenes.  Paul remained unwearied when he was focused and fuming.  
   
“McCartney, old chap.  Congratulations! How the hell are you?”  
   
“David, luv, so good to see ya.  Work going well?”  Paul was piling on the Macca charm and beauty and whatever the fuck it was about him that easily ensnared men and women alike.  Bailey had never met anyone like him.  
   
“Strange ya should ask, Paul.  No, it’s not.  I can’t get a booking, anywhere, except the fifth rate fashion houses in Eastern Europe and filthy porn rags.  Barely keeping my head above water. Not like the good old days.”  
   
Bailey’s foreign, underage date had already grown bored and wandered off towards the buffet table. Whoever the hell had allowed the skeleton model and her twat escort onto their property would be sacked!  Paul fumed invisibly, silently.  
   
“Sorry to hear ‘bout that, David. Strange, isn’t it though? But ya know, I s’ppose in the end it’s all about yer reputation in that business. Clients wanna be sure that you’re a decent bloke. Honest and trustworthy.”  
   
“Do you know something that I don’t, Paul? Is there some prick spreading lies about me in the London fashion circles?”  
   
 _“Ya mother fucker son of a bitch…”_  
   
He tried to hold back. He tried to resist, grinding his heels into the brick, biting on his upper lip.   
   
Fuck.   
   
Then, McCartney pounced on him, long before the plump prat could move to defend himself, and punched the cunt of a criminal in the groin, as hard as he fucking could manage, after several glasses of bubbly champagne and all.  Paul was a tad sloshed too.  
   
Unfortunately, once he let himself go, Paul couldn’t stop pounding his left fist into the tosser’s crotch, a vicious beating that followed the slow collapse of the bastard’s increasingly limp blob of a body down to the herringbone terracotta pavement until Paul, barely coherent and shaking and dripping with sweat, was gently pulled off the crying lump of a pummeled scumbag.  
   
“Paul.”  John’s hushed, silky voice rippled through McCartney’s veins and flowed like liquid warmth into his shattered heart.  
   
No one was around. Ever observant and quick as cats, Neil and Derek had made sure that Paul’s furious attack at the side of the mansion hadn’t turned into another costly press scandal. Some things never fucking changed.  
   
“Sshhh, Macca. It’s all right.  Back to the party, luv. It’s a celebration—our anniversary. Leave it, yeah?”  
   
As John wrapped his arm around Paul’s shoulder and steered his winded, cursing lover off towards the main lawn, he turned back to watch the worm squirm in agony on the ground.  If John had been younger, he would have sliced off the fucker’s nuts with his metal-tipped cowboy boots.  But instead he kissed Paul’s soaked hair tenderly, and hugged him tighter as they walked away.   
   
John Winston Lennon was finally growing up.  
   
~~~  
   
“Oi, George, it’s time!”  
   
Ritch waved his arm and winked at George with a snort, as the two musicians climbed up and stood above the crowd on a cleared buffet table.  Then the drummer began banging the rim of his crystal glass hard with a spoon.  After a few moments, guests gathered around the main marquee began to hush and move closer.   
   
What the fuck was this?  Paul’s stomach dropped with a thud, as he realized their mates were about to take the mickey out of them in front of all these fucking people.  
   
Maybe it was just an innocuous toast?  Bloody unlikely.  
   
Fuck.  
   
Did John know about this stunt?  A quick look to his right, and Paul’s realized that was doubtful.  Sheet white pale in his colorful suede jacket, John looked as if he were about to vomit his guts up.   
   
And then Paul looked around. All the kids were gone or in bed, most of the old geezers, family members and nameless invitees had long since left. Shit, it was just a couple of dozens mates still standing around at the garden bash at this late hour.  Paul filled up his champagne glass again and lifted it in cheers.  
   
“Bring it on, ya wankers!”  McCartney screamed, silencing the crowd instantly.  No one screamed as magnificently as Paul McCartney.  
   
George smirked wickedly, and raised an eyebrow over his nighttime sunglasses, staring over the heads of the partiers, straight at his two life-long mates seated next to each other at the back of the space.   
   
“Hello everyone! Time for the show!  We’d like to present for you pissed lovelies tonight the “Bloody hell, our band mates are queer for each other” slide show extravaganza!  This could have gone on for hours, but Ritch and me have edited it down to ten extraordinary minutes of Lennon and McCartney poof glory!”  George stepped back and raised his hand to signal to the projectionist that it was time to start the wicked show.  
   
Fucking hell.  
   
The first giant image appeared on the makeshift fabric screen.  
   
Old, and not so old, photos… one after another… flashed by, many shots taken privately by Ritch and George themselves. Black and white and crisp color shots of John and Paul, casual touching, arms draped, of teasing and hugging and poking, and bloody dozens of photos of intense, smoldering stares… one after another, after another.  
   
In the studio, on the beach, backstage, onstage, on a train, during a press conference, on an airport tarmac crowded with thousands of people watching…   
   
Holy bloody hell!   
   
Nearly everyone was in tears of hysterics by the time the slide show was over. Iit was mostly their mates, after all.  Many of these poor sods had to live through his and John’s long, arduous journey of “we’re not queer” shit.  Hell, many of these daft nits had their own poofter baggage stored in their own gay closets. Paul chuckled to himself silently and put his hand on the thigh of his grinning, auburn-haired lover, leaning into his side.  
   
Suddenly Ringo shouted above the laughter in his deep, strong voice.  
   
“Happy anniversary, Paul and John!”  
   
As the projector lamp was turned off, the small crowd erupted in applause, with arseholed yells and pissed whistles filling up the starry night sky.  Thank god for good mates, especially that artsy phantom arsehole.    
   
The buzzing sound of drunk cheering and lewd hollering gradually started to wind down; John leaned over and cupped Paul’s amused chin, pulling his partner towards his mouth by a fistful of thick, salt and pepper hair.  And then, without warning, Lennon tongue fucked Paul, long and deep and sloppy, in front of the staring, jaw-dropped crowd.  Some sneaky guests pulled out their cameras and stole snapshots of the snog, which no doubt would somehow find their way on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper.   
   
Fucking sod it.  
   
The hushed silence of the stunned spectators was soon quickly broken with more whoops and boisterous claps of approval, started by George and Ringo, of course.   
   
“Happy anniversary, John.”  Paul whispered into John’s mouth.  
   
“I love you, Paul.”  
   
As he sat back in his chair, satisfied and bloody fucking proud of his steel, queer balls, John could have sworn that he heard Brian whisper ‘Bravo!’ in his ear.

~~~~~~~

 **Paris 1961**  
   
Although the afternoon showers had stopped much earlier, and the skies had cleared and the streets had dried, a damp chill still permeated the early October air.  
   
“Ya cold?”  
   
Paul blinked and turned his head slowly towards the low, raspy growl of John’s question; he was so close to him that he could feel John’s husky voice vibrate through his skin.  
   
“Hmm? What d’ya say, John?”  
   
It was well past midnight, and the glossy surfaces of McCartney’s large, dark eyes reflected sparkles of light from fucking somewhere, shining out from underneath the soft, layered fringe of the nineteen year old’s new haircut. John still hadn’t decided if Paul’s eyes were brown or hazel or something else… they changed color, he’d noticed. Fuck, there must be a shitload of universes in those magical Macca eyes.   
   
John found himself staring, drowning again in those dark pools; with a sigh, he snapped out of it and caught his breath.  Fucking hell.  Bloody Paris was turning him even softer for the lad.  
   
“I asked if yer cold?”  
   
“No, m’not.  Are you?  We could head back. S’gettin' late.”  
   
“Nah, I’m good, mate.” Stretched out on his back, John smiled behind his heavy-framed glasses and raised his arms up together over his head, cupping the night view between his curled palms, trying to capture the stars and the iron lace in the circle of his fingers.   
   
“This is good.”  
   
“Mmm… yeah, s’good.” Paul grinned with a silent chuckle at the sight of his best friend, dreamily attempting to trap the perfect autumn night inside his outstretched hands.   
   
Shit, those hands.   
   
Paul gazed up from beneath his heavy lids at the thick curves of his boyfriend’s fingers. The same talented, restless hands that scribbled lyrics and nonsense on napkins, that bashed his sad, battered acoustic and grabbed the microphone on stage like a howling mad wolf.  The same strong and gentle fingers that tangled in Paul’s thick hair during a snog, that pushed against and penetrated his parted, moist lips tenderly, that carefully readied his tight bum for deep thrusting.  
   
John had the most bloody beautiful hands.  
   
Flush with a mess of queer feelings, Paul suddenly sat up, resting his weight on one elbow, taking a long, satisfying swig from the last of the two bottles of cheap red wine they had brought along with them on their nighttime stroll hours ago.  Wriggling his bum on the cold pavement, McCartney readjusted his leather jacket, pulling his scarf tighter, and shifted his legs in his narrow, black trousers.  
   
“Johnny, let’s finish off the wine.”   
   
Fuck, it must be bleeding cold; Paul could see the misty clouds of his warm breath pour out of his mouth. But he didn’t feel the chill at all.  Shit, Paul felt like he was burning up inside, the heat steaming up from his chest and his ball sack.  
   
“Yeah, all right.”  John abandoned his finger play and lifted his torso up, his leather-clad elbow brushing against Paul’s.  With a grunt, he took the bottle of tart burgundy.  There they sat under the wrought iron underbelly, obscured by the evening shadows, invisible to the world, perfect mirror reflections of each other.  
   
As he gulped down a hearty swallow, John looked around; no one was within at least ten, maybe fifteen, yards of them, and it was fucking pitch dark on this late, moonless night.  He pulled off his glasses, folded them and slid them into his leather jacket pocket.  He didn’t need his specs to see Macca; the boy was mere inches away, his striking, delicate features partially blurred.   
   
“Paul.”  
   
“Yeah, luv?”  
   
“Kiss me.”  
   
“Here?”   
   
Paul glanced around, an unsure expression consuming his young face. Without thinking, he instinctively pulled way from John and leaned back an inch or two, the cogs in his mind spinning rapidly. Kiss John on the mouth in public?  Fucking here? That was going too far, too fast; the deafening drum of his pulse pounded in Paul’s eardrums.  
   
“John, we can’t.  There are folks ‘ere, all round.  C’mon, let’s go back to the hotel, and I’ll kiss every inch of ya.”  
   
Another unreasonable Lennon test. And McCartney had failed.   
   
Paul realized it nearly immediately.   
   
Fuck.  
   
As he glanced away into the fuzzy darkness and swallowed, a jagged splinter ripped through John’s heart.  He didn’t really expect Paul to just let down his guard and snog him in public, out in the open under the famous tower, but somewhere in his mind he’d wished for it so desperately that it had been consuming his waking thoughts.  He’d imagined how it should happen, how it would feel, for months now. Their first public kiss…  
   
John had been even more batshit obsessed with the snogging fantasy ever since they’d first spotted the architectural icon dominating the Parisian landscape in the raking autumn sunshine. Girls and fellas embracing under the structure, lounging about with tangled limbs in the grass on the nearby park lawn. The fucking world allowed them the bloody goddamn freedom to love openly.  
   
Sides, tongue-fucking a blissfully relaxed, compliant Macca under the Eiffel Tower was a frequent scene in Lennon’s batter dreams. He didn’t know exactly why. It wasn’t like any of his usual, filthy-arsed lustful scenarios.   
   
It just was.  
   
The fantasy of snogging his beautiful lover in public just was…  
   
In the dim light, Paul’s eyes traced the line of John’s profile. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow that injured expression on John’s face, with his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, was utterly, fuckably gorgeous. Licking drops of wine off his lips, Paul couldn’t stop staring at masculine curves of John’s strong, distinct silhouette.  
   
Shit, he’d fallen hard for Lennon, a thousand fold more since Scotland and their van adventure last year. They’d shared everything in Scotland. Paupers’ wages and daft dreams and raw music. And every inch of their bodies.  
   
He’d shared everything with John except the truth.   
   
Paul wasn’t sure if he was prepared to cross that fucking line.  
Being secretly and madly in love with another bloke was one thing, but fucking admitting it out loud, to your best mate and band partner. Shit.  And worse, he had no idea what the hell John felt or how he would react.  Shit, he had no clue what John was bloody thinking at all.  
   
What if John only wanted to shag, what if he only needed Paul in his bed to satisfy those intense and unlawful randy cravings? Those fears had danced around in the back of Paul’s uncertain brain for some time now. Many worrisome things danced around back in there.  
   
Paul had overheard John say, “I love you” to Cyn in front of others, in front of him, for shit’s sake. Many times. He’d watched him stroke her cheek with his thumb, and kiss her lips softly when he said it; Paul had learned to simply get up and leave when the torture became too painful.  
   
 _“I love you.”_  
   
Those fucking three words always seemed to drip off John’s tongue so bloody effortlessly. To Cyn, anyroad.  
   
Paul inhaled another deep breath as he took back the bottle. What if John only wanted his round arse for quick, illicit pokes to pass the time?  What if John didn’t love him back?  What if he wouldn’t. Or worse  _couldn’t_ , even say those words to him?  
   
Fucking hell…  
   
Then, as if on cue, the analytical, rational side of Paul’s brain realized that he was being daft as horseshit.  Christ, the seesaw that rocked back and forth in Macca’s young head between audacious pluck and cautious self-preservation was bloody dizzying.  
   
He grabbed hold of himself and forced his mind to stop racing down that dangerous path of self-doubt.  Shit, he and John weren’t just sucking and fucking like desperate animals anymore; they were making love now… Paul was bloody fucking sure of that.  Those naughty playtimes in each other’s boyhood bedrooms, wanking off their randy teen knobs for the thrill of disallowed pleasure had been bloody exciting, and dangerous.  
   
But it was different now since Hamburg, so fucking different. And so much more. They’d grown dependent on each other for honesty, for courage and comfort, for bloody everything.  Volumes of emotions now exploded with every stolen kiss, filling each other’s famished, needy mouths.   
   
Shit.  
   
Paul was completely fucking in love.  
   
And it terrified him, though at the moment the sour French wine was helping to blunt his ragged nerves.  Shit, he was here, in Paris.  John had chosen him. Lennon was spending quid on Paul, time alone with Paul. Not meek Cyn, not cunt Sutcliffe, not anyone else.  
   
Paul coughed to clear his nervous throat before he spoke again.  He relaxed and let the syllable roll off his tongue.  
   
“John.”   
   
Shit.   
   
The breathless way that the beautiful, cowardly bastard spoke his name made Lennon’s gut tighten and his cock twitch; it always had.  John turned toward the sound, but before he could crack some hurtful, defensive remark, Paul’s fingertips brushed his lips, hushing him affectionately. He felt Paul’s other hand cup and then caress his flushed cheek.  
   
“Let’s go home, Johnny. Back to the room, ok?  Let’s go back and make love. I need to make love to ya.”  Shit, McCartney’s slack but begging face looked so beautiful, his eyes heavy-lidded and his wine-stained lips wet and parted, his flawless features half-lit by the street lamps… Paul’s expression at that exact moment was more breathtaking than anything John had ever seen in his short, shitty life. More glorious than any of the glossy shots of pouty Bardot taped to his Mendips bedroom ceiling.  Christ…  
   
Paul had never talked about arse fucking with those unspoken words before. They’d never called it making love. Not out loud to each other.  John’s fractured heart, so wary and fragile, melted into buckets of sloppy goo. He fucking forgot about the ache in his balls for a public snog, for a while anyroad.  
   
~~~  
   
The flimsy hotel room door burst open; they snickered and cackled and grabbed each other as they fell into the spare, frigid space.  
   
“Quiet, for shit’s sake, John!  The old bint’s gonna chuck us outta ‘ere if ya don’t shut it.”  Paul laughed out the words, much louder than he’d intended, holding his stomach in hysterics.    
   
“Mmm…” John slammed the thin door shut with his toe of his boot, and grabbed Paul by the face with both hands, licking his warm tongue up the side of Macca’s stubbled, plump cheek.  
   
“You taste French, baby.”  John was a tad more bladdered from too much shoddy wine.   
   
Closing his eyes as he was pushed up against the dingy hotel wall, Paul let his head fall back, exposing his throat to entice John to run his lips over his sensitive neck.  Paul adored John sucking on his neck, especially if he left little bruises.  
   
“S’fuckin’ freezin’ in ‘ere.”  Paul moaned towards the ceiling, eyes still shut.  
   
“S’gonna get colder after I strip ya starkers, Macca.”  John murmured with a sneer into the hollow of Paul’s pulsing, tasty nape, as he pushed the leather jacket down and off the lad’s shoulders. Feeling the younger boy quake with shiver, John moved closer, tenderly embracing him with the warmth of his body, from shoulders to shins.  
   
“Fuck…”  
   
“None of that now.  We’re making love, Paul. Remember?”   
   
McCartney snickered softly, as his face crinkled with a voluptuous smile, his dark bangs dangling helplessly to one side. The caress of John’s silky, seductive words whispered into his left ear left him nearly breathless. Holy fucking hell.  Paul’s lean legs started to crumple until he caught himself, using the wall pressed up against his back for support.  
   
After nibbling on his squashy earlobe nub, John snaked his fingers through Paul’s soft locks and pulled his face towards him, staring deep into the lad’s hypnotic eyes.  
   
“Kiss me, Macca.”  
   
Without any hesitation this time, Paul opened his mouth and sucked on John’s lips, moaning and snorting with affection.  He let his tongue dance around inside John’s wet warmth, inhaling the smoky wine flavor of his lover, his fingers raking through those maple locks. While John’s mouth remained placid, allowing the boy to explore and taste and arouse to his heart’s content, Lennon’s magical hands undid Paul’s belt buckle, unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down over McCartney’s slender hips.  With another trembling shiver, Paul moaned again.  
   
“Me prick’s gonna get frostbitten in this bloody icebox, John.  Let’s go over to the bed, get under the covers, yeah?”  Paul kicked off his shoes by the wall and pulled his lover over to their small Paris fucknest of a squeaky bed, lips still locked on John’s, licking and sucking, until John pulled off momentarily and hummed.  
   
“I’ll getcha warm, darlin’.”   John then gently pushed Paul down on the lumpy mattress, on his back, peeling off the skin-tight trousers, leaving McCartney clad only in his scarf and black t-shirt, white underpants and dark socks.  For a few seconds, John stood there, hands on his hips, still fully dressed in his own leather jacket, jumper and white trousers; he looked down at the lad, drinking in the sight of Paul’s exposed, furry physique, now covered in fields of goose bumps.  
   
After pulling off his boots and letting his jacket slip to the floor beside the bed, John crawled on top of his shivering beautiful boyfriend.  
   
“’Ere, lemme warm ya up, baby.”  
   
“Shit, yeah… mmm… God, John.”  
   
John kissed and nibbled his way up the length of Paul’s arm, through the woolly hair and up and over the swells of his smooth, taut bicep, finally nuzzling past the scarf fabric and burying his nose into Macca’s neck. Then he sucked ravenously, leaving trails of ruddy, raw love welts.  Most would be long gone by tomorrow, but John sat up on his knees and surveyed his work like fucking arsehole Picasso.  
   
Paul was a perfect canvas.  
   
“Christ! John, luv, up on yer feet then.  I need ya.”  McCartney demanded with a pouty snarl, his hands pressing against John’s hipbones.  
   
With a hard shove, John was pushed up to a standing position, balancing against the edge of the bed; Paul scooted his bum over and straddled John’s crotch with his hairy thighs, letting his legs hang over the edge of the bed.  Underneath the feathery fans of his thick lashes, Paul’s gazed up, running the side of his nose up the length of John’s clothed erection, grasping and squeezing John’s arse through the cream-colored trouser fabric.  
   
“I fuckin’ need to taste ya, Johnny.”  And with that, Paul unzipped John’s tight trousers and pushed them down to his lover’s knees, along with Lennon’s Y-fronts. After letting John rub his cock over the luscious mounds of his cheeks, McCartney engulfed his hard, thick vein.  Paul had him in his mouth for a minute, or perhaps five, before John pulled out abruptly.  
   
“Wait!”  
   
“Huh? What’s wrong?”  
   
John bent down, his firm freckled arse sticking up in the cold air, and grabbed his leather jacket, fishing around furiously in the pockets.  
   
“Wear these.”  
   
“Yer fuckin’ jokin’, right?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Well this is a new kink of yers, luv. Ya want me to wear these while I suck ya off?” McCartney’s amazed expression was a mixture of shock and amusement.  
   
John just grinned and nodded; he suddenly realized that he actually felt a bit embarrassed for making such a fucking wicked request… and for what he planned to do to his blissfully unaware lover. Shit, it was a deeply hidden, dirty Lennon fetish; he’d never told anyone about it, not even Paul. His cock grew painfully harder as his imagination pictured the rascally scene that would soon unfold and his exploding release.  
   
Paul slid John’s heavy glasses up his short, straight nose and licked up and down, under and over every inch of his boyfriend’s aching throbber for a few moments, teasingly slow, before his swallowed him down his throat.  John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight.  He grabbed clumps of Paul’s soft hair with his fists, pulling and pushing Macca’s dark-haired head back and forth, in rhythm with Paul’s sucking motion. The lad relaxed his cheek muscles and submitted, allowing John to fuck his face, eyeglasses askew.  
   
As his head fell back in ecstasy for just a few seconds, eyes shut tight, Lennon groaned out into the chilly, poorly lit darkness of their cheap Parisian hotel room. He could feel the liquid heat bubbling up in his balls, climbing up the length of his rock hard cock. He’d burst and spurt at any moment.  
   
“Bloody hell, Paul!”  
   
Then John forced his gaze back down to the sight of his slick hardness sliding in and out between Paul’s lips. Fuck.  At the last possible moment, he willed himself to pull out again, grabbing Paul by the hair to jerk his head off of him, and exploded his orgasm... all over Paul’s beautiful face, all over the bloody glasses he’d made him wear.  Paul’s splendid perfection was drenched in salty John juice.   
   
John cried out; he could be a bloody screamer too, sometimes.  
   
Stunned and speechless for a few seconds, Paul regained some composure and started to chuckle, as he pulled off his own black T-shirt and wiped the warm batter off his face, cleaning the cream off John’s sticky specs.  
   
“Holy fucking shit, John!”  
   
With a delicious groan, John’s knees finally buckled and he collapsed forward onto the mattress, his white trousers now pooled around his ankles, face down, moaning in rapture. Still seated at the edge of the bed, Paul looked over at his spent lover and arched an eyebrow impishly.   
   
 _“Well that was naughty, ya cagey fucker. Let us give it try then…”_    
   
Paul snickered silently, as he stood up and stripped off his underwear and socks, standing there over Lennon’s writhing, munchable bum; the boy was hard as steel and naked except for his fluffy Maccafur and his scarf. He didn’t feel the autumn chill at all anymore.    
   
Tossing aside the scarf and scrounging through his black trouser pockets, Paul quickly found the small tube of lube and squirted a generous pool into his palm, slathering himself up shiny and slick.  
   
“I’m gonna fuck… M’gonna make love to ya. Hard, Johnny.  Ya ready, darlin’?”  
   
John just nodded slightly and moaned into the stale-smelling, ratty blanket, lifting his hips up as an unmistakable invitation. His eyes narrowed in lust, Paul drove into him with one fierce, continuous thrust, until he slammed into the bulge of John’s sensitive prostate. Grabbing fistfuls of the musky covers, John yelped and groaned into the fabric, as Paul pounded into him repeatedly, grunting and swearing obscenities.  
   
“Ya fuckin’ fancy me this way, deep and hard. Don’t ya, Johnny?”  
   
John didn’t answer; he shifted his hips up higher to meet Paul’s prick, and then even higher, until he could feel the lad’s soft, warm balls slam into his arse with each thrust.  That’s how Lennon fucking liked his bum loved.  
   
Paul’s chest fell forward and he leaned on his elbows as his building orgasm grew closer and closer.  He bent down further and kissed John’s sweaty shoulder blades, running his lips up the back of John’s new shorn, moist neck.  Without thinking, he buried his perfect nose into John’s soft hair and inhaled.  Fuck, he bloody loved John’s silky hair, even more so now without the grease.  
   
“Shit, yer so bloody tight, Johnny.  M’not gonna last much longer…”  
   
“Mmm… give it… baby.”  John mumbled incoherently into the mattress.  Suddenly he gasped and his feline eyes shot wide open, as Paul pulled out in one vicious, unexpected jerk. The nineteen-year old scampered up towards the back of John’s perfect head and spewed streams of Maccamilk all over his boyfriend’s gorgeous auburn hair.  
   
“FUCK!”   
   
Paul bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming even louder.  As euphoric spasms rocked through his body from the blinding ecstasy of release and then gradually subsided, Paul finally tasted the metallic flavor of blood in his mouth.  
   
Deftly, he scooted back, straddling John’s hips, and parked his drained lad package on the solid curve of John’s round arse. His long, talented fingers started to knead the clumps of sticky semen into John’s locks, squishing and mashing the gooey mess into his silken curls, mucking up his boyfriend’s beautiful, smooth hair.  Then, without warning, Paul snorted and fell on top of him with a sloppy thud, nuzzling his nose in between John’s sweat-soaked shoulders.  While he kissed and moaned into John’s hot, moist skin, Paul whispered softly.  
   
“How ‘bout a hot bath then?”  
   
John nodded and laughed so fucking quietly that Paul could only feel the vibrations through his lover’s broad back muscles.  
   
~~~  
   
Paul’s right hand was plunged under the soapy suds, swirling around the delicious hot water.  
   
“Bath’s nearly ready, luv.  Lock the door, right?”  He whispered.  
   
After several delightful minutes of cuddling and kissing on the batter crusted bed sheets, they’d gotten dressed, sort of, and grabbed two thin, scratchy towels from the rack by the toilet in their room, before padding their way quietly to the old club-footed tub in the common loo down at the end of the dark hotel hall.  
   
There was hot water tonight. They were two skint but lucky fuckers.  
   
John turned the lock and then peeled off his white undershirt.  He moved up behind Paul, and wrapped his arms around his slender waist; softly he traced a trail of kisses up Paul’s neck. Fuck, he loved playful, naughty Macca more than anyone in his life.  Probably always would, he figured.  
   
“Let’s get in then.”  John growled quietly from behind into McCartney’s ear, as he pulled back and lifted Paul’s shirt up over his head, tossing it on the floor near the door.  
   
Within minutes they were both submerged in the steaming hot water, facing each other from across the waves of bubbles.  
   
“C’mere, luv.  Lemme wash yer hair.”  Paul crooned as his worked up a healthy dose of soap lather in his hands.   
   
“Ya bloody well better, after emptying yer load into me innocent tresses and all.”  John scooted over, a few splashes spilling over the lip of the tub.  With tenderness, Paul washed his hair, massaging his temples and scalp until John closed his eyes in delight, resting his chin on Paul’s shoulder.  
   
“Mmm… this is good.”  John sighed.  
   
Paul just snickered and rinsed off John’s hair, careful to keep the soap out of his beautiful eyes.  When Paul signaled that he was finished with a kiss to the soaked, washed locks, Lennon moved away and leaned back, his eyes still shut, and rested his cleaned head of hair against the tub edge, stretching his bent legs out as far as he could.  
   
And then it happened, without any warning.  
   
“I love you, Paul.”  He said the words loud and clearly, so there’d be no chance for misunderstanding or for pretend deafness on Macca’s part.  John bloody lived to jump down fucking rabbit holes.  
   
Silence.   
   
Paul didn’t moved a muscle, his head spinning, the breath ripped from his chest.  John slowly opened one eye and glared affectionately at him, a slight smile lighting up his face.  
   
McCartney regained his breath, and quietly spoke as passionately as he ever had about anything.  
   
“I love  _you_ , John.”   
   
Paul suddenly grabbed John’s left foot from beneath the bath water and lifted it up to his face, licking his tongue along the length of his instep.   
   
“Shit, that felt good.”  Paul finally chuckled before he pulled John’s foot closer and wrapped his lips around two of his boyfriend’s toes, sucking on them gently.  
   
“What felt good?”  John asked, one eyebrow arched slightly with confusion.  
   
Paul pulled his mouth off John’s wrinkled, wet toes.  
   
“Finally sayin’ those words to ya. Saying  _I love you_. Shit, hearin’ ya say those words to me.  _That_ was fuckin’ brilliant!”  
   
“That it was, baby.  Now, let’s have ya go back to suckin’ on me toes, ya beautiful kinky nit.”  
   
Paul grabbed John’s other foot and started shrimping all over again.  They were two blessed fuckers, indeed.  
   
~~~~~~  
   
 **Liverpool 1962**  
   
   
With a disgusted groan, Paul ground out another cigarette in the pretentious crystal ashtray on the table in Epstein’s parlor. If one more of Brian’s ‘associates’ ogled him again or panted into his ear about how bloody talented he was, he was gonna fuckin’ throttle someone. He loosened his shirt collar just enough to breathe a bit easier in the staleness of the smoke-filled, cologne-drenched room.  
   
Over in a corner of the ornately decorated parlor, John stood restlessly, all of his weight on one leg, arms crossed, his solid shoulder leaning into the toile-papered wall.  His face was frozen in a disinterested whisper of a plastic smile, as he wondered just how many of these daft mindless conversations with irrelevant twits he’d be forced to have in order for them to make it big. They had the EMI recording contract now… but could they fucking pull it off?  Could he and Paul bloody do this?  Would they last?  
   
Finally Paul caught his eye, nodding his head towards the door, dark eyes pleading for an escape. Then suddenly McCartney’s path to freedom was blocked by two more of Epstein’s friends, one large, rotund fella smoking a pipe, and another, who stunk of curry and leaned his shiny face in too close.  
   
Before the bassist could finish his long, silent sigh of resignation, John grabbed him by the forearm, telling the two leering queer chaps that he and Paul needed to talk for a moment.  Within minutes, after jackets were recovered from the wardrobe, they slipped out the front door of Brian’s flat, leaving Harrison and Ringo behind to carry the weight of the boring champagne celebration.  
   
Quickly the two lads marched down the sidewalk, shoulder rubbing against shoulder, away from Brian’s gathering and towards a less familiar neighborhood in their hometown. While he lit up a smoke, John inhaled and snickered.  
   
“There’ll be a fuck more of that daft shit when we’re famous, Macca!”  
   
“Yeah, I know, luv.”  
   
Paul nearly ran along side to keep up with John’s fast, deliberate pace, his eyes watering from the night breeze and the weight in his heart, as his left hand fingered the folded piece of paper in his pocket.  Without saying as much, he was guiding John towards an out of the way pub that he’d spotted while trapped on a rerouted bus nearly a fortnight ago.   
   
“We’re gonna make it now. We’ll get the fuck outta here, Paul. I can feel it in me bones, son.”  
   
“The contract changes everything, doesn’t it?”  
   
And then they were just a block away from isolated, run-down drinking establishment, the perfect place to end this illegal love with his best mate…  
   
It was the perfect anonymous shit hole to break John’s heart.  
   
Paul was still mulling over his knot of thoughts as he pulled the auburn haired young man, nearly blind at night without his glasses, off the gloomy street and up to the front door.   
   
“Let’s go in ‘ere, Johnny. Grab a pint or somethin’.”

 

**THE END**

*If you wish to read excerpts of my first original m/m slash novel, **_Dominus_** , visit http://archiveofourown.org/users/JPKenwood

  
  
  
 


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